


Borrowed Time

by CollectorOfWonder



Series: Mark of Destiny [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra/Varric kinda, Cullenlingus, Dorian/Oc - Freeform, Eventual Smut, Explicit Dreams, F/M, Hawke/Fenris - Freeform, M/M, Slow Burn, Solas/OC who is a take on Lavellan, canon-divergent in places, lots of NSFW thoughts leading up to smut, not word-for-word, self-gratification and lots of it, the smut starts around ch 9
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 136,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollectorOfWonder/pseuds/CollectorOfWonder
Summary: Evelyn Trevelyan only came to the Conclave at the behest of her cousins, who feared disruption by one or more agents of the smugglers who stood to profit from chaos. Nothing could have prepared her for what happened there or what followed, leading her down a path of grief but also hope - hope in finally letting go of her troubled past and the shadowed guilt consuming her, and hope to build a better world.When someone like the Commander of the Inquisition forces believes in you with such strength and conviction, after all, it's hard not to stand a little taller.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Solas & Female Trevelyan, Varric Tethras & Female Trevelyan
Series: Mark of Destiny [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998328
Comments: 176
Kudos: 264





	1. Prologue - The Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> Every Inquisitor has their tale. This is just one of the several that have burrowed their way into my brain. 
> 
> I do think I love the story of a mage Trevelyan and Cullen best, but my first play through of Inquisition came on the heels of finishing the Throne of Glass series. Maas has such a satisfying prose when it comes to combat and her battle scenes, and that was stuck in my head. I found the game's version of warriors unsatisfying, as I couldn't dual wield the way I craved, and assassins were too squishy and formulaic. 
> 
> I've taken quite a lot of liberties with combat from the game - nothing bugs me in fantasy literature more than combat reading like the limitations of a video game or tabletop RPG. So I'm treating the game like the cliff notes version of an epic fantasy novel and going from there.
> 
> I've no interest in recreating word for word the scenes and dialogue we've all played through a thousand times - where included, my intent is to give a fresh perspective on a familiar outcome. So there's some canon-divergence but overall it's still the same story shape we're familiar with. Hope you enjoy!

It began with a laugh.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard laughter; real, genuine, mirthful laughter. It wasn’t even what he would categorize as a pleasant laugh. It was loud, staccato barks of humor punctuated by snorts. Feminine in origin if not manner.

Yet the sound wrapped around him like a song - or more like cold, fresh air blowing away the staleness that you’ve yet to notice has gone fetid. When was the last time he’d been around something worth laughing over, let alone someone relaxed enough to let their enjoyment loose?

Cullen felt as though he hadn’t enjoyed anything at all in a very, very long time.

He rounded the corner of the Chantry pillar, report on the mage settlement in hand, ready to take a bite out of the Herald’s hide for her rash decision. It had taken him some time, and a stern lecture from Cassandra, before he’d felt ready to discuss it with the girl - woman, soldier, whatever - without his own inner fears and nightmares clouding his judgement. 

The mass graves at Kirkwall would haunt his thoughts regarding his judgement of mages until he crossed the Fade himself, he was sure. And though the Seeker had also been furious with the Trevelyan girl, she’d also counseled withholding judgement and the need to present a unified front. 

That, however, was what raised his ire. A unified front meant they did not make momentous, possibly - _likely_ \- catastrophic decisions on a whim, and not alone. Not without even sending a raven for counsel! Leliana knew the king of Ferelden, she could have persuaded him to grant a few more days, at the very least. Alistair owed her his life, a few times over to hear her tell it. 

That Cullen himself knew the king in passing did not particularly bear thinking on for many reasons. That was a wound he knew not to prod around in if he could help it. 

The laughter had evaporated his anger, leaving him cloaked only in stunned silence. He stood there, leaning against a cold pillar and watching Trevelyan and that damnable Tevinter fop she’d dragged in from Redcliffe. She needed someone who could check her rashness. He didn’t know Hawke as well as Varric, but the sooner they located the Champion, the better. He could think of few people better suited to reign in this supposed Herald’s more impulsive notions without completely crushing her in the process.

Cullen had firsthand experience with that aspect of Hawke, afterall. 

He wasn’t even going to think about that odd elf girl or the mercenary. His coffee hadn’t yet settled and it was too early to deal with a turned stomach from stress all day. At least the Qunari and his men could fight - but a spy, an admitted spy… His head was pounding and he hadn’t even visited the training camp yet.

But there stood Trevelyan, doubled up with laughter and tears coming out of her eyes, begging the Tevinter mage to “for the love of the Maker, stop, I can’t breathe” while that smug bundle of fashion and blood magic told the filthiest story Cullen had ever heard in his life. Filthy enough to make the edges of his ears burn in embarrassment, yet Trevelyan was hooting and slapping her knee. She seemed far too young to possibly have any experience that would merit that level of entertainment, but apparently their Herald was a little more worldly than he’d thought.

Not that he’d thought anything beyond unease and annoyance, really. She was attractive, certainly, and fought with a vicious ruthlessness he could only admire. It was outstripped only by Cassandra’s calm determination and righteous fury on the battlefield. She’d been intended for the Templars or Chantry life, according to Leliana, but she was too old for either and frankly, seemed to Cullen ill-suited to both. What she was suited for, he’d yet to puzzle out. 

She accepted the mantle of Herald begrudgingly but hadn’t argued since that first meeting of theirs around the war table. Since then, she’d pushed at its edges, forming it into something not even Cassandra could control. It made both of them nervous, though Leliana seemed to take it in stride, with something like admiration. There was a cunning behind the blue eyes and auburn hair that none of them had anticipated when they pulled her down off the mountaintop. 

Cullen simply didn’t know what to make of her, and that was what gave him such unease. Except now, when she laughed, the sound shot at his center like a lance, slicing through all of his armor and walls with ease. Only one unexpected and wholly unwelcome thought echoed around his skull.

_She’s beautiful._


	2. Green

For Evelyn, everything began and ended with anger. 

She’d always been a rebellious child, but for a long time it was only curiosity that drove her forward. Inflicting endless questions upon her tutors until most quit in annoyance, running around the grounds picking various plants, spending evenings demanding explanations from the exceptionally patient cook on what she was doing and why, pulling books off the high shelves she wasn’t supposed to access in the family library - all out of an insatiable desire to know more.

Good thing she wasn’t a mage, her uncle had noted. Such curiosity would have her damned.

When she’d asked her father why it would have been dangerous, he merely grunted and turned the question aside. She supposed mages just weren’t allowed to learn, which seemed more dangerous in her opinion. In her child’s mind, magic was like herbs - she knew which ones to eat so she didn’t get sick. Shouldn’t a mage know which spells were safe and which summoned demons so they could avoid it even by accident?

 _Magic is too great a weapon, and knowledge of it simply sharpens the blade_. That was her uncle’s response. Her father only grunted.

She would learn later, as she grew older, those grunts were saved for times when her father could not trust himself with words. Also times he was tempted to separate his brother’s head from his shoulders. In her father’s defense, the Teyrn was a bit of an ass.

Evelyn was ten when everything changed. Everything. 

  
...  
  


Blood. Metallic in her mouth, nose, but more. Vile. Rotten. Decay. So much pain, sharply shooting through her body, her left arm shaking with it. Her stomach revolted and she curled into a ball, shaking and cold, heaving nothing but air and bile.

“Easy,” a soft voice said in a lilting accent she couldn’t place. “Easy. Breathe through your nose until your stomach stops clenching. Push the pain down. Imagine a line, retreating down your arm.”

She obeyed, for air. Soon enough the pain was endurable, but the sparks that exploded behind her eyes made her hiss and bury her face in whatever it was she lay upon. She inhaled sharply through her nose, mind automatically cataloguing what her sense of smell deduced. Hay, wood. Leather and fur. Elfroot, a lot of it, crushed? Something else - a light and not unpleasant musk, like a man’s scent rolled in woodsmoke and pine and snow. No decay, no...no scent of...of…

“She will have to be restrained,” came a different voice. Female.

“We don’t know that it was her.” A second woman. Would that she could open her eyes, but the pain in her head, the splashes of verdant, bright light like lightning through her mind...

“We don’t know that it wasn’t.”

Irons, clanking. So cold. _Take her to the cellar and lock the door._

_You will not take my child from me!_

_She may not be your child any longer. She must be watched._

_Mama…help..._

Alone in the dark. No, not again. Not...she’d gotten out, she wasn’t still there. Not again. 

She screamed.

  
...  
  


Dark. Cold. 

Back here again. Damn. Iron restraints. Crackling pain along her left hand and arm. She cracked an eye, crusted over from sleep who knew what else. Maker, her hand hurt, like knives under her skin. 

Torture? No, not active, no one else here and her uncle hadn’t… The pain had been in her side, her rib broken from being flung against the cave wall. Not her hand. Her hands had been around the rock, fingernails broken as she swung it into bone and tissue, blood and gore and…

She was going to be sick again. 

_Breathe_.

Damp stone. Clean straw. Mildew and burlap. Pine tar and wood, burning. Not the wine cellar with its earthen floors and oak and fruit smells.

Both her eyes open, now, she could see that it was dark, but the darkness was a different quality from her nightmares. Dimness, she realized as her sight adjusted, not total darkness. Torchlight flickered on a stone ceiling, though from a short distance, as shadows gathered heavily at the corners of her vision. A straw-stuffed sleeping mat beneath her, judging by the sound it made against her armor. Armor she still surprisingly wore, though the leather and cloth stank of sweat and something like the acrid smell of exploding powders.

Pain lanced through her hand again and she inhaled sharply. A green light flashed in her vision and she looked to her left where she lay, her hand curled into her side. The light was coming from the place of pain. A magical wound of some kind?

She’d been running, from...something. Beasts of some kind that were wrong, more wrong than anything she knew. A voice had called to her, begging her to hurry. She’d faltered, and a woman reached for her, but who? And where? That urgency still pounded in her blood, echoed in the pulsing light in her hand.

“...expected better of you, Cassandra,” a smooth, masculine voice interrupted the darkness. Ferelden, educated. Disappointed in something.

“You are hardly one to judge me, Cullen.” The answering voice was familiar. Snappish. Impatient. Accented - Nevarra? Female. Evelyn searched her memory and found only a call for restraints from that voice, no face.

An exhaled hiss from the Fereldan. “No, that’s the sole duty of the Seekers, forgive me.”

“Arguing does neither of you credit,” spoke a third voice, soft. Orlais. Velvet-covered steel, that one. Volumes unsaid below her words. Where was the kinder voice? The one that told her to breathe? What had he said? Push the pain down. A line, retreating. 

She did as previously instructed, inhaling and pushing. The pain lessened, the throbbing growing more dull. Hammers instead of knives.

The glowing faded a little and she could see an oddly shaped line across her palm, curved in the middle. Like a cut interrupted, or a burn that was part of a pattern. That was where the glow originated, green, like - 

Like the Fade.

“Torture does us no credit,” the Ferelden countered, a dark edge to his voice. 

“We haven’t touched her,” said the one they called Cassandra.

“No,” the man - Cullen, she thought - drawled, “simply shoved her in an unheated, unlit cell without even letting one of the sisters wash her and only the apothecary and that apostate mage to see to her wounds.”

“It’s not like a Templar to go soft on a prisoner.” That third voice sent shivers through her. “Not like you.”

“Leliana.” A warning edge to Cassandra. Protective of Cullen but also angry. Seekers...those were part of the Templar Order. Two closing ranks against the third? Could Evelyn exploit that somehow?

“I am no longer a Templar,” the man fairly hissed. “You knew me ten years ago at the lowest point of my life, Leliana. Do not presume you know me now.” Anger on tight leash. The Orlaisian woman hummed in satisfaction, a sound almost like a purr, but not at all sexual. 

“Good.”

“Were you - was that a _test_?”

The pain in her head overwhelmed her senses again for a time, and darkness overtook her. How long she drifted in and out of consciousness, she couldn’t say. There was nothing in her cell to mark the time, and she wasn’t awake long enough to be able to hear guard shifts or anything like it.

Finally, thirst made itself the foremost of her concerns and she called out for water in a cracked, painful voice. That set off a flurry of motion, and while someone did at least bring her some water, that person backed away quickly - very swiftly, gracefully. An elf servant of some stripe, frightened of her. Evelyn eased upright and drank carefully, unwilling to set off another bout of heaving for the pain it would unleash in her head. Her left hand stung, the coolness of the metal tankard doing nothing to ease it. It still glowed a malevolent green, with the line of pain crawling up every nerve in her arm to circle around the crown of her skull. 

She nodded slowly in gratitude to the elf girl, crouched as she was in fear at the barred cell wall. Evelyn sat up and opened her mouth to ask the servant her name, but the creaking of a heavy oaken door drew her attention. Several more armored guards entered, accompanied by a tall, fierce-looking, yet stunningly lovely woman with short black hair and a breastplate emblazoned with the Eye of the Maker and a second, more lithe woman - ginger-haired, though covered by a lavender stole clipped to her light mail tunic. Suddenly, there were quite a lot of sword tips pointing at her.

Evelyn searched her memory through her pounding head. The Nevarran and the Orlaisian, she would bet. No sign of the Ferelden. 

The Nevarran Seeker started yelling at her, shouting accusations. For someone titled “Seeker”, she seemed to have arrived a story she was satisfied with, facts bedamned. Evelyn’s hand jerked and twitched of its own accord and she hissed. “I had nothing to do with whatever you think I did. I don’t even know what happened.”

“Explain that, then.”

“I bloody well can’t!” Evelyn hissed. “I don’t know what happened, or what this is except painful.” Maker beyond, was it true? Everyone at the Conclave dead? Her cousins, her friends...the Divine herself?

The Orlesian stepped forward, easing the Seeker - Cassandra aside. “What do you remember?”

“Green, primarily.” Evelyn closed her eyes. “Running away from something - demons, I think. There was a woman calling for me, reaching out for me.”

“A woman?” The Orlesian asked.

“I can’t seem to focus on her face. Or voice. I don’t think I’ve heard it before. There was just this green light around her...and rubble.” She frowned, eyes still closed. “I think I came to in the rubble, but it was dark, and there was, well. Pain.” She wiggled her left hand demonstratively, then opened her eyes. “That’s all.”

“Convenient.” The Seeker glared.

Evelyn snorted. “Not for me, unless you consider iron bars a convenience, in which case I might wonder what sort of places a devout Seeker like yourself is spending time in.”

The Orlesian caught the Seeker’s arm before she could dart forward in anger. “Easy, Cassandra. We need her.” She paused. “Though perhaps not that sharp tongue?”

Evelyn closed her eyes, exhausted. “Would one of you please speak in complete sentences and tell me what happened? An explosion? Are you certain everyone’s dead? I had family -”

“So did we.” The Orlesian said softly, dangerously. “They’re all gone. Only you survived.”

“That’s impossible,” Evelyn retorted. “You don’t just survive an explosion that takes out hundreds of people, of mages and templars for the Maker’s sake.”

“Precisely my point.”

“If I had set off that kind of explosion, I’d be dead for sure. The amount of gatlok required - or the sheer arcane power…” She paused. “What did happen, do you know? What’s powerful enough to take out the entire Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

The Orlesian stood. “I’ll meet you at the forward camp.”

The Seeker nodded then turned to Evelyn. “It will be easier to show you.”

….

Green. She was starting to hate that color. The color of bile. Acid. One of Uncle Oswin’s backwoods whiskey experiments gone wrong. 

“Maker’s sweet breath,” Evelyn breathed. 

The Seeker looked sidelong at her. “We call it the Breach.”

A maelstrom of green light, cloud, and heavy black and grey rocks swirled in a vortex like the eye of a sea storm. Looking at it alone made her nauseous, but then light flared from it and her hand flared in response. Evelyn fell to her knees in the snow, swearing roundly.

“It’s killing you,” the Seeker remarked emotionlessly. “So you can stay here and die one way or the other, or you can help us close it.”

“How,” she bit out.

“The mark on your hand, we think it’s connected to the same power that tore open the Breach - it’s a tear in the Veil between this world and the Fade.”

Evelyn sucked in a sharp breath. “I didn’t do this. I wouldn’t have but besides that, I’m not a mage. I don’t have that kind of power and I’ve never sought it. Whatever this is, it was done to me unwillingly.”

The Seeker looked at her with careful consideration. “You want to prove that? Come with me and help.”

She pressed her aching palm into the cold snow at her feet. “I don’t have much choice, but I would help anyway. Whatever did this killed my family.”

“So you said,” the Seeker mused. When all of this was over, if Evelyn survived, she was going to give the woman a matching fucking scar on the other cheek. The vow gave her some comfort as she found her feet while being hauled upright.

They spoke only a little as they made their way up the mountain, the Seeker setting a relentless pace that left little breath for conversation. Still, Evelyn tried to extract what information she could. “I know what the Conclave was meant to be,” she snapped at one point, tired and unable to contain the ache in her hand, though at least the Seeker had unbound her. The Seeker’s condescension had reached past the wall of calm she was trying to instill. “My cousins were Templars, they...they had some fears the Conclave would be disrupted.” She sighed. “Justified, as it turns out.”

_It’s bad, Evie. It has to stop. I never wanted to kill anyone._

_You joined a military order dedicated to killing mages, Max._

_Not like this, not all of them. This is extermination. Magic is meant to serve, not rule, but Andraste never said it was evil, in itself. Owen was a healer._

_Don’t you dare speak to me of your brother. You all cut him off, you left him there to rot in that Circle without even a letter._

_What are you talking about? I sent letters, I -_

The Seeker was responding to her question about surviving forces, but Evelyn barely listened, lost in memories of Maxwell, who she could now never apologize to. And Edmund, who’d been an ass but didn’t deserve death. Lilith, her sweet smile and calm voice, always reaching out to try and build bridges between a family so set on tearing itself to pieces. Maker only knew what had happened to Owen when the Circle fell. The bodies left were so badly burnt...

They’d all loved each other as children. 

The little wooden castle her father built in the trees...pretending their way through the story of Andraste - Lilith was _always_ Andraste - and sneaking apples and strawberry jam…back when Katherine was still...

Katherine. _Oh, Katie. Look after them_. 

“Look out!” the Seeker called, jolting her back to the present, but not quickly enough for them to jump away as the stone bridge crumbled beneath their feet. 

The drop wasn’t far, thankfully, but Evelyn fell hard on her shoulder and felt it jerk out of place. She inhaled and pushed herself upward with her good arm, squeezing her other wrist between her knees and realigning her shoulder. It popped back into place but the resulting crunch caused her stomach to heave. Thankfully, there’d been naught but water there to lose.

“Demons! Stay behind me!”

Well, shit. Evelyn wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but maliciously floating green spirits and - what the hell, was it made of molten rock? _Rage demon_ , her mind dredged up from a bored reading of all the books Max had kept giving her in another of his ill-fated recruitment attempts. 

A dangerous, bubbling shadow spread on the ground before her, and Evelyn backed up, casting her eyes around for anything she could use as a weapon. A demon sprang from the shadows and she dodged out of its path. She picked up a half-broken wooden crate and flung it at the demon’s head. It snarled in response. Great.

A mage’s staff lay strewn in the wreckage of the bridge, and before she could think better of it, she grabbed it and swung at the demon. The heavy metal end connected and the demon staggered back. She swung again, but it recovered and lashed out, grabbing the staff and effortlessly snapping it in two. 

Andraste’s _tits_ , the thing was strong. She picked up a hunk of stone and threw it, buying herself a moment to frantically search. A broken bow. No. A sword twice her size - she couldn’t even lift it and she was by no means weak. Ah, a shorter sword. That would do.

She hefted it in her right hand and ripped the lid off another broken crate as a makeshift shield. The blade was chipped and the pommel had come loose, it was obviously not a well-made blade but if she ran hard enough, the pointy end ought to do its business.

She turned around to the demon - a Shade, maybe? It opened a horrible mouth and screamed at her. _Put that rage to use, my girl. If death stares you down, stare back_. Evelyn grinned, hefted the sword, and screamed right back at it.

 _Katie, save a seat for me_. 

She ran, vaulting over the wreckage, boots crunching on the snow-covered ice of the frozen river beneath her. 

_If Andraste looks anything like Lilith…_

The Shade reached for her with long arms of deadly muscle and sinew, fingers tipped in terrible black talons.

_...I will be unbelievably pissed and owe you five coppers._

She dropped to her knees as the claws closed together, stabbing upwards with the sword as she knocked her makeshift shield into the demon’s legs. Her blade sank deep and she rose with it, pushing it in to the hilt, until she could smell the acrid smoke and dust of the demon’s breath. With the shield and all her might she shoved the Shade off the sword and then spun, cleaving through its thick, distended neck. With a hiss and a pop that hurt her ears, most of it dissolved into a flash of sickly green light, leaving behind only the rags and brick-a-brack it had armored itself in.

She’d just killed a demon. Well. That was something. What, exactly, it was, she didn’t know. But something. 

A muted hiss and gargle and triumphant yell signaled the end of the Seeker’s own battle. “Are they crossing over without possession?” Evelyn asked, turning around. 

The Seeker’s sword was pointed at her chest. “Drop your weapon.”

“I could have already run you through while your back was turned, Seeker, but I didn’t.” Evelyn sighed. “I’m not going any further unarmed. You’re going to have to trust me. Or else trust that you can probably take me in a fight.”

The woman snorted. “Probably?” 

“At least until I’ve had a decent meal and a good night’s sleep, so probably never at this rate.”

The Seeker relented slightly, something like chagrin on her features. “All right. I should remember you came along willingly.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And I cannot protect you effectively,” the Seeker continued pointedly. “Here.” She tossed a small leather satchel to her. It clanked softly, and Evelyn opened it to find a few leather-wrapped vials inside. She sniffed, smelling elfroot again. “They’re foul, but they get the job done.”

Mirana would have added honey to them. Evelyn nodded. “They’ll do.” She tied the satchel onto her belt. 

They continued onwards, Evelyn discarding the crate lid when Cassandra pulled a shield off a dead soldier for her. The sword grip of the soldier’s sword was still too wet with blood, so Evelyn made do with her current if unsatisfactory weapon. “You seem to know what you’re doing with a sword,” the Seeker commented. 

“Yes.”

“You fight like a Templar.”

Evelyn smiled tightly. “Only with a shield and only when things are hurling magic at me.”

Cassandra arched an eyebrow. “Is that often?”

She sighed. “Didn’t use to be. This war’s done a number on everyone, Seeker.”

“Who trained -”

“My cousin, and only the basics a few times,” she interrupted, “If we survive the next hours, I’ll tell you everything before whatever trial happens, but not while I’m trying to jog up a mountain toward certain death, yeah? I can fight, that’s enough.”

Cassandra stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Let’s go. We’re getting closer; you can hear the fighting.”

“Who’s fighting? Soldiers of yours?”

“You’ll see.”

Maker’s mercy, she thought in irritation, maybe she _should_ have run the Seeker through. Though, Evelyn reflected, the ease with which Cassandra flew around her foes indicated that thought was best left in her mind. The woman was a warrior and a force of nature.

They crested the top of the path to find the fight and Evelyn gasped. An odd crooked slash of green light hovered in the air. No, Maker help her, it _split_ the air, and demons were pushing through it into their world, snapping umbilicals of green energy as they erupted out of it. 

In the middle of the chaos stood a handful of fighters in light armor. A crackle of lightning hissed past her ear, crashing into a Shade that had erupted behind her before she had time to turn around and swing. A tall, bald-headed elf effortlessly swung a mage’s staff into the face of another, letting off a blast of energy, before tossing off a dart of razor sharp ice with his free hand. 

Evelyn blocked an incoming pellet of fire from a Rage demon, redirecting it down and away from her face as Max had showed her. The next one came quickly on its heels but she was ready for it, and this time blocked as she turned, batting it into the face of an oncoming Shade as it bore down on a ginger-haired dwarf holding the most complicated crossbow she’d ever seen. Cassandra managed to get a leg up on a short stone wall and vaulted herself into the air, arcing the wicked blade of her sword down with incredible force. The elf she’d seen earlier waved a hand and encased the blade in a swirl of electricity, which neatly cleaved the Rage demon in two. It exploded into a shower of green sparks that were sucked back into the tear.

Evelyn neatly lopped the arm off the last shade as it spun for her, and the dwarf finished it with twin crossbow bolts to the spots where something like eyes were. Demon or not, that made her wince. She looked around for more enemies, but found none. Still, the hair on the back of her neck stood as the air cracked and snapped with energy. Battle had pushed the sensation away, but now the throbbing returned to her left hand, sharp and insistent.

The elf was beside her in an instant, pulling at her arm and removing the glove, none to gentle in urgency. “Quickly! We must seal the rift!”

She recognized the voice as the one who had comforted her, talked her through her pain when she lay half-conscious and in agony. He held up her arm and looked at her half-expectantly, half-desperately. Eyes the color of sage searched her face. “Can you-”

Evelyn hissed as pain lanced through her palm - something was pulling at her, like a fish hook embedded into her skin. Instinctively, she somehow pulled back. At least, that’s what it felt like, as though she curled her fingers around a door knob and just... _pulled_. The light contracted into a dense ball and then vanished with a crack like thunder.

The pain faded almost instantly, and she sagged in relief. She looked at her palm, only the faint scar now, with very little light, and then looked up at the elf whose slender fingers still gripped her wrist with a surprising amount of strength. Though not that surprising, given the grace with which he’d handled himself in the fight. “What did you do?” she asked.

“The credit is yours,” he said, letting go of her. He held out a hand and she placed hers in it, palm upward so he could look at the mark. A small bit of cold air swirled along his index finger and he traced it gently along the scar, relieving the additional burning sensation until she could move her fingers more naturally. “I theorized the mark on your hand might be able to seal the rifts and perhaps the Breach. The magic used to form them feels connected, somehow.”

He dropped her hand and turned to Cassandra. “You should know, Seeker, your prisoner is no mage, though I have trouble imagining any mage capable of this scope of power.”

“Noted,” she answered wearily.

“Glad whatever just happened worked,” a gruff voice commented, and Evelyn looked over to meet eyes with the ginger-haired - and Maker, was he ever _haired_ \- dwarf. He wore a flashy red tunic half-unbuttoned and amount of gold jewelry under a leather coat, all better suited to a pirate. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He grinned at Evelyn. “Varric Tethras at your service; troublemaker and occasionally unwanted companion.” He winked at the Seeker, who grunted in response.

“The author?” Evelyn asked, blinking in surprise. “Do you make a habit of appearing everywhere shit blows up? Aren’t you cold?” She stared at him. “Where the hell did that crossbow come from? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Varric blinked at her, startling a laugh out of the elf at her side. “I’ve yet to see him at a loss for words,” the elf drawled. “Well done.”

Evelyn looked between them and noticed neither the Seeker nor the remaining fighters were holding weapons to the pair. “Are you with the Chantry, then?” she asked dubiously.

The elf snorted delicately. “Was that a serious question?” He reattached his staff to its clasps on the simple leather strap he wore across his shoulders. It sat upon a green coat of homespun wool lined with fur - fennec, by the color of it. A thick cotton tunic sat underneath, and like most elves she’d met, he’d opted for a particular style of foot wrapping rather than shoes, leaving his toes and heels bare upon a thin sole of leather. Though, even Mirana wore boots in the mountains like these. Perks of being a mage, she supposed, fire magic to heat the toes.

“No,” he answered her silent appraisal, “we’re not with the Chantry. I’m Solas, if there are to be introductions.” 

“He means ‘hi, I kept you from dying while you slept’,” Varric offered dryly.

“I remember,” she murmured, “vaguely. Thank you for whatever it was you did.”

Cassandra broke away from the soldiers she’d been speaking to. “Solas is an apostate.”

“Technically,” he corrected, “all mages are now apostates.”

She acknowledged the fact with a slight frown. “I gather due to his lack of training within a Circle, he’s come into some interesting and esoteric knowledge of the Fade.”

Solas nodded. “When I saw the Breach, I came to help.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “You walked into a camp full of Templars and rebel Circle mages as an apostate and just expected them to let you help?”

He shrugged. “A risk, certainly.”

“He was persuasive.”

“And, luckily, spoke to Leliana first,” he finished cheerfully. “She, at least, listens.”

Evelyn decided she liked him, however little she bought his story. Anyone who could so calmly sass the Seeker who’d come close to beheading Evelyn at least twice got her approval. She glanced at Varric, who laughed lightly. 

“You get used to Chuckles,” he told her as the elf moved to Cassandra to speak. She’d never seen a mage so at ease in the presence of someone who could snuff his magic like a candle flame if she wanted. She wasn’t exactly clear on what the Seekers were, but knew they were part of the Templar Order. That was evident from Cassandra’s fighting style alone. 

“At any rate, to answer your questions: yes, the author. No, I’m not cold, I’m never cold. This body was bred for cold. You mean a cold dwarf, it’s a dead dwarf. The crossbow is Bianca, she’s pleased to meet you.” Evelyn cocked her head, amused despite herself and this ridiculous and terrible situation. Varric’s face was open, friendly, warm. That was...that was really nice. 

“‘Bianca’? You left that detail out of _The Tale of the Champion_.”

“You read it?”

“Twice.”

He grinned. “Tell you what, kid. We get out of this in one piece, I’ll sign your copy.”

Evelyn looked away, back to that sickening swirl in the sky and the long column of pulsing green that extended from it. “I don’t think there’s much left to sign, I’m afraid.”

Did things pass through the Fade alongside souls? Would Max be reading _The Tale of the Champion_ to Edmund, Owen, and Lilith while Katie knitted something and smiled, all tucked away under quilts in the treehouse? She swallowed thickly and pushed back the tears. Anger was safer. Grief could tear a person to shreds if they let it. 

Why in the Maker’s name was it her again? Why had she lived and they didn’t?

Why did she have to do this all again?

Her hand jolted slightly and she bit back a yelp. Maybe she wouldn’t have to for much longer. “We should get to the forward camp,” Cassandra called. “Not you, Varric.”

“You need me and Bianca gets feisty when she’s bored.”

“We need all the help we can get, Seeker,” Solas said gently.

Cassandra grunted, but let the argument go. “Fine, just keep up.”

Varric tossed Evelyn a look out of the corner of his eye. “Was that a dwarf comment? I think that was a dwarf comment. What’s your name, by the way, kid?”

“Evelyn,” she replied, heaving herself up from the rock wall she leaned against. “Evelyn Trevelyan.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a Marcher name. Ostwick, right? So you’re a lady?”

She snorted. “In name only, friend. Let’s go.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen appears in full badassery in the next chapter. (And full armor, because no one fights wrapped up in fabric an fur for fuck's sake.)


	3. Dareth Shiral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Fooled you, Evelyn's more of a rogue than a warrior. Though she's trained here and there in other weapons and fighting traditions (like Alistair and his beloved pikes). 
> 
> Some liberties taken with the battles, as writing exactly how I fought this in the game would be excruciatingly boring to read. Also, this is fan fiction, I am allowed liberties. Like having Cullen up on the Temple mount, because he wouldn't let their best hope for salvation go unprotected. And Leliana getting an attack of the conscience and going after the scouts on the mountain. (That was a stupid choice in-game anyway, they'd never have asked for your opinion.)
> 
> Anyway. Fiction. Have fun. Now for the fighting! (So much fighting.)

Evelyn diverted her attention from the puffed-up Chantry cleric before she reached out and throttled him. Her nerves were already frayed enough. He reminded her forcibly of her uncle, Teryn Alric Trevelyan, the man who had never stopped blaming her for his eldest daughter’s death and his heir’s entry to the Order.

It turned her stomach to think of what her uncle would say now that the rest of his children were dead, while she still lived.

“Trevelyan?” Cassandra’s voice pulled at her. “What do you think?”

She blinked and looked between the Right and Left Hands of the Divine, searching her mind for the fragments of the conversation she’d heard but not really thought about. “You want my opinion?”

“You bear the mark,” Solas pointed out.

“You’re the one we have to keep alive,” Cassandra clarified.

Evelyn snorted softly. “I’m not going to live long enough for your Maker-be-damned trial, we need to get up there the fastest way possible. I don’t like the idea of marooning men under your command, however, you can’t have many left after the explosion. Sister Nightengale,” she said, catching the Orlesian’s attention, “could you not take a patrol with you and retrieve them?”

“If there’s another rift up there, they cannot close it.” Solas cocked his head at her, studying her in a way that reminded her of her old history tutor. 

“But they can distract the demons, potentially, and get away.”

“Or we could be throwing more men into a death trap,” Cassandra countered.

“Point,” Evelyn acknowledged, rubbing the bridge of her nose. The light sparked from her hand and she noted how the Chancellor stepped back quickly. “We still need to charge. We can minimize the casualties from fighting that way, and the sooner I get up there and see if this works, the better for everyone.”

Solas frowned slightly. “It would be easier to protect you on the mountain path where we can keep any fighting contained.”

Evelyn laughed mirthlessly. “I appreciate your concern, but I can hold my own. I need some better weapons, but then I’m ready.”

The Chancellor sputtered in indignation. “You’re not seriously-”

Evelyn spun on her heel and walked away, waiting to see if anyone halted her as she stalked to the makeshift armory. They didn’t, but by the sound of the arguing, at least one of them wanted to. “As one prisoner to another,” Varric spoke beside her, “you okay, kid?”

“No,” she answered honestly, “I’m dying, but at least I get to choose how.”

She sorted through blades until she found two that were between a knife and a short sword. They weren’t exactly what she wanted, but they’d do. With the pain in her hand shooting throughout her body in feverish pitch, and lying unconscious for Maker knew how long, she wasn’t in peak fighting shape. She wouldn’t be as fast, but she definitely wouldn’t be able to hold out long with a shield. She’d tire far to quickly, especially with her left arm in such pain. Her best option was fleet-footed and swift. She might not be able to hold her arm defensively, but it could still swing a light sword, especially since most of that motion came from her shoulder and torso.

The blades she found could be strapped inelegantly to her back with criss-crossing leather belts. She managed to fit in two more knives, better suited to hunting that battle, onto her belt, and a backup each in her boots. She cut the threads and pulled the metal pauldrons off the ill-fitted coat she’d donned what seemed like a lifetime ago. It did little to lighten the bulky weight of it, and she cursed roundly, discarding it into a pile. If this strategy of hers was to work, mobility was key.

She tore off a piece of the coat and tied it around her neck - not loosely enough that it could be grabbed or snagged on an enemy, but snug and warm against her neck. She now stood in only her sweat-soaked and filthy undershirt and padded linen under-tunic. Shivering slightly, she bounced on her toes, and started to reach for the rest of the gear, buckling the blades tightly and testing the speed of her draw twice to make sure. 

Nearby, Solas leaned on the stone ledge of the bridge and watched her ready herself curiously. As she finished securing the knives in her boots, he approached her and held out a pair of leather vambraces. She took them and tied them on gratefully. They were both warm and secured her shirtsleeves. The under-tunic she’d selected the morning she'd gotten dressed was only a vest, due to the bulk of the nondescript mercenary’s coat. 

She jumped a few times, ensuring everything was secure, then nodded to Cassandra. The Seeker eyed her curiously, but made no comment. Solas reappeared with a pair of leather gloves with the fingertips unevenly sliced off. “Best I could do on short notice,” he said. “These should grant you mobility while keeping some pressure on your palm, which might help with the pain. The magic shouldn’t need bare skin to work. It tore a hole through the Veil between worlds; it can manage leather.”

“Ma serannas,” she answered tiredly, though she did notice the expression of surprise at her Elvehn. “I should hire you as my personal tailor if we live through this.”

“I’m terrible with a needle.” He gestured to his simple coat, which was indeed roughly stitched together with a thick leather thread. 

“But warm,” she countered as they grouped together to follow Cassandra into the valley. 

“Your blades. You wear them in an...interesting way.”

She smiled slightly. “I was taught by an interesting woman.” The smile faltered as she realized the very slim chance of ever seeing Mirana again. Or Uncle Aidan, her parents, Jesper, Vess…

They began moving, and as she’d been taught so long ago, Evelyn let the fear in. It hardened into anger, rage, and  _ that _ she turned into an icy, driven, emotionless calm.

The killing calm, Aidan called it. Mirana called it something complicated in Elvehn that she could never remember. Something about dancing the path between life and death. What was it?  _ Din’anshiral _ .

The sounds of battle grew as they approached the valley, and she could see the reflection of another rift’s sickly green glow. She’d closed a second on their way to the bridge, and Solas thought there might be another on the mountain path. Maker’s mercy, there must be dozens in this area alone. 

Well, grumbling wasn’t going to do any good. She glanced at Solas and gave him a curt, respectful nod. “Safe journey,” she said in Elvehn, the words sounding strange directed at any other than Mirana. His eyes widened again in surprise but she was already moving away from him at a quick clip.

“Shoot anything that gets near me,” she gasped out as she shot past Varric. To Cassandra, she yelled instructions to draw in the biggest first, she’d take care of the rest. The Seeker had no time to protest the commanding tone as she leapt onto a boulder and then vaulted down into the middle of the fighting, blades unsheathed.

A blonde human man with the shield of a Templar if not the armor was leaping to the defense of a downed archer while the smaller elf struggled to regain her footing on the ice. A gash in his forehead indicated how his helm had been knocked off. The man was fast on his feet, blocking a blow from one Shade with his shield while lopping off the head of another with a sizeable and deadly-looking sword. 

Another demon lunged for him, but as he shifted his stance in front of the archer, Evelyn let the blade loose from her right hand. It flipped expertly straight into the demon’s mouth. She ran past, yanking out the sword and pausing only to kick the helm back to the blonde soldier. Behind her, she heard Cassandra shouting for a commander, but her attention was occupied by a blast of spirit energy that surged past from a wraith. 

Shitfire, would knives even work on a wraith? She supposed there was only one way to find out, and threw her left handed blade at it.

Yes. It worked. 

Toss, vault, retrieve, run, duck, toss.  _ Be the wind. Never stop. _ Mirana’s words echoed in her memory as she darted from enemy to enemy, using the terrain to leap over friend and foe alike.  _ Don’t let them touch you _ .  _ Don’t let them see you. You are nothing. You are their fear, you are their shadow, you are their death. _

That worked, until one of the Shades managed to catch hold of her ankle. She slammed into the ice and grunted, only just managing to not fall face-first. Her blades had been knocked out of her hands by the impact and the Shade drew her close, raising its claws. A male voice hollered something nearby, but there wasn’t time.

Evelyn kicked fiercely with her free boot. It didn’t dislodge the demon’s grip, but she managed to flip onto her back in the process. She lunged forward from the waist and grabbed the hilts of her boot knives. The Shade had hold of both her feet now, so she pulled them forward and the demon along with it, lifting her feet to tip it off balance. Its head-like structure fell toward her, and met the two knives with a wet crunch.

She rolled it off her before it could dissolve, and grabbed one of the fallen blades as she righted herself and looked around. Too many. There were too many demons.

She had managed to get closer to the rift now, though, and could feel the pulse of its energy. Raising her hand, she felt for that phantom doorknob and yanked with all her might. 

But there was simply too much pressure, too many invisible fingers holding that door open. She pulled harder and a shockwave of energy radiated out, stunning every demon within a thirty-foot radius. With the demons distracted, the soldiers gained an advantage, and Evelyn reached for that strange pulse of the Fade again. Yet the rift had changed shape and she couldn’t seem to get a hold of it. Panic threatened to close her throat as she frantically sought any sort of purchase on the power above her, any tendril she could anchor her mark to.

“Watch your back!” a deep and vaguely familiar voice shouted. She flipped the blade in her right hand and struck backwards, feeling it slide home into something, and she half-turned, pulling the blade sideways. It was a strange sensation, pulling a blade through a demon. Not quite flesh and bone, smoother somehow on the inside but harder on the exterior in places. 

Too many Maker-damned teeth.

The Shade fell and she saw the same blonde-haired man from before, who hadn’t even stopped to pick up his helm. In one smooth, powerful swing, he sliced through one Shade and then another, moving with a seamless shift of his left foot. He was incredibly fast even in full armor and her first thought was to be glad he was on her side. Her second thought was to curse roundly as she realized that pressure she’d felt was a second wave of demons pressing against the rift, and they’d now come through. 

She caught sight of Varric and Solas nearby. Cassandra stood in front of Solas batting away fire from a Rage demon with a tower shield as Solas shunted mana into his staff focus and released it in a blast of cold beneath the Rage demon’s feet. It shrieked as pointed lances of ice shredded its form. Evelyn caught Cassandra’s eye. “Back me up!” she called and all three ran toward her. 

Cassandra took up position a few feet from her, using her sword and shield to carve a clearing around her. What she missed, Varric caught with Bianca. Solas laid glyph mines of ice around them, catching demons in an explosion of winter’s fury and if not killing them outright, slowing them enough that Cassandra and Varric could better pick them off.

The golden-haired man caught them out of the corner of his eye and without a word from Evelyn, moved quickly to take up the position opposite them. The way he spun and moved with his shield made it as much an offensive weapon as a defensive tool. He held the opposing line single-handedly. She could see the Templar training in him, but she’d never seen anyone move so fluidly, like every step was ingrained and practiced muscle memory but not the simple combinations that every soldier knew. He obviously had extensive knowledge and skill, and drew from it like a mage from a grimoire. 

But she didn’t have time to admire anyone’s fighting. As soon as the rift began changing shape again, she reached up and grabbed onto its energy. This time, she could feel it latch onto the mark, anchor itself. She twisted her wrist, imagining winding a rope around it for a better grip, and pulled hard. It fought her, but closed with another shockwave, and the last demon died on Cassandra’s blade and fizzed to nothing.

She shook her hand out. “Ow.” As with the last rift, however, the pain lessened a bit.

Solas was beside her in an instant, along with Varric. “You’re becoming quite proficient at this,” the mage told her.

“Well, I’ve always been a quick study,” Evelyn retorted. “Can you conjure me a piece of ice?”

He obliged and she slipped it under the wrist of her left glove and gripped it against her hand. “Thank you.”

Varric whistled in appreciation after studying her face for a moment. “That’s a hell of a fighting style, kid.”

Solas nodded in agreement. “It’s Elven, and ancient. I had not thought to see it anywhere outside of the deepest Fade memories.” There was something like accusation alongside the curiosity in his tone. 

She looked at him, fully. He did not carry himself like any city elf she’d ever met, but neither did he bear the vallaslin of the Dalish. But the elves in general, especially the Dalish, were far more complicated and secretive than most humans realized, as she’d learned. “My aunt taught me.”

His eyebrows shot upward. “Your aunt?”

“By marriage. She is Dalish, from a very isolationist and traditional clan that was last heard of in the deep foothill forests of western Orlais. Maker knows where they are now.” She rolled her shoulders, easing out some of the soreness from that last tumble. “Her story is not mine to tell, but as I’m sure you’re aware, a lot of Dalish frown on intermarriage with humans.”

“I’m aware of that, yes,” he drawled, “among other things they frown upon.”

So, he wasn’t Dalish, then. Or no longer considered himself as such. “It’s a fighting tradition they keep. She taught me. I was...well. It helped channel some of my more destructive urges as a child. I learned to focus it.”

Varric glanced at the wreckage of the battlefield, pieces of demon armor and other remnants alongside gashes of a blood-like fluid that was redder than mortal blood. “If that’s you channeling your aggression, kid, I’m glad I didn’t meet you earlier.”

That startled a laugh out of her. “Everyone deals with fear in different ways, Master Tethras.”

“Varric, please. You’ll make me blush.” 

“I tried reading  _ Swords and Shields _ . I don’t think you’re capable of blushing.” 

It was the dwarf’s turn to laugh, Solas merely shaking his head but with a small smile. She found herself hoping for a moment that she lived through whatever came next, if only to talk with them some more, to learn about these different men who had so readily fallen into combat alongside her as though they’d trained together for years. 

The golden-haired man and Cassandra were speaking, discussing the rift. Now that he wasn’t shouting orders on a chaotic battlefield, she could place that voice as the Ferelden she’d heard arguing with the Hands before. How much before, she couldn’t say, but at least it hadn’t sounded like he wanted her tortured and for that she was begrudgingly grateful. She couldn’t quite recall the name they’d mentioned. Colin or something. He must be the commander of whatever peacekeeping forces had been stationed here. No one else would have the authority to go toe-to-toe with the Hands like he had. 

He caught her eyes and held her gaze with the casual boldness that only came from someone well-used to command. He thanked her, but then looked between the Seeker and herself grimly. “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of good people getting you this far.”

_ You and me both, pal. _ She held her tongue in replying that it could have been worse if they’d taken the long way around. “I’ll do what I can,” she told the commander. He nodded curtly, then broke his gaze away toward a limping soldier. He darted over and grabbed the soldier’s arm, wrapping it around his own shoulder and lifting the weight onto himself as he half-carried, half-walked the man over to the battlefield healers that were assessing injuries.

They walked forward through the wreckage of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the misfit group of companions blessedly quiet. Evelyn found herself counting footsteps, counting breaths, anything to avoid focusing on the sheer devastation surrounding them. Were any of those twisted and burnt corpses Max or Edmund? Lilith?

Andraste preserve their souls, wherever they were, she prayed. For the first time in a very long time, she meant it and meant it fervently. She could not bear it if there was no one to hear her plea for them. Her mouth framed the words of the Chant of the Departed on their own but her voice was only the barest of whispers.

_ BRING FORTH THE SACRIFICE _

The deep voice struck something primal in Evelyn, and her head snapped up, searching. She barely registered the musings of Solas in response to Cassandra’s question. The elf touched her arm gently. “An echo, most likely,” he told her. “The Veil is threadbare here, the Fade leaking through. It’s a memory of what happened. Whomever did this, they are not here now.”

She nodded, but her eyes would not stop their frantic search, every nerve in her body screaming  _ bad bad bad run terror it’s coming bad _ . She started down the path to her right at a quick stride, not even pausing to really take in the oddness of the Fade-laced columns of rock until some in red began to appear.

They...hummed. 

Evelyn paused and reached toward one, expecting to feel perhaps a hum of energy. But before she could do so, a strong hand caught her wrist. “Nuh-uh,” Varric said gruffly, “no touchie. That’s red lyrium.”

“Red lyrium?” she asked. “I thought lyrium was blue?”

“Yeah, well, we can talk about it later, but this shit’s bad and don’t touch it. Don’t breathe near it for long and just...stay away from it.” He looked over at Cassandra, fingers still holding tightly to Evelyn’s arm. The fear and urgency in his expression broke through her haze, and she let him tug her away from the red crystal. “You know about this, Seeker?”

“I’m aware,” Cassandra replied shortly.

Varric swore and only let go of Evelyn when he deemed it safe to do so by some internal metric. “What’s it doing _ here _ ?”

“I don’t know.”

Solas was frowning at the red pillars, but he made no move toward them, unlike Evelyn had. Perhaps mages could sense the wrongness of it before it started calling to them? She shook herself. Now that Varric had pulled her away, the pulse of the red lyrium seemed sinister and almost sickening. “Perhaps whatever caused the explosion drew on a lyrium deposit beneath the Temple, corrupting it somehow?” He shook his head, frown deepening. It was difficult to tell if it was in reaction to the red lyrium or simply its existence. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“I have,” Varric responded, and there was a wealth of pain and other emotions in those two simple words. “Keep away from it, everyone. It corrupts you, drives you insane.”

They delved further along the path. Something about its curve seemed familiar. A lifetime ago, she had wandered down a curved hall in the Temple, fingertips extended to brush the cold stone. Deep in thought, she’d followed it, wondering at her cousin’s fears and hoping they were unfounded, but determined to seek out any weaknesses the neutral Chantry forces might have missed and ensure they were protected…

_ Run! Warn them! _

Orlesian. Calling out for help, then yelling for someone to run. Cassandra gasped. “That’s Most Holy’s voice!”

The Divine? 

_ What’s going on here? _

Her own voice, confused, angry, aggressive. Again, the Divine’s warning to run and warn someone. Cassandra wheeled around and grabbed Evelyn by the shoulders. “She called out to you! What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Evelyn ground out, pulling away. “I can’t remember!”

“Is she alive? Who did this?”

“I don’t know!”

“Seeker!” Solas called, wisely refraining from grabbing Cassandra, but stepping smoothly between the two women. “This isn’t going to help. We must focus on closing the Breach. Look at the red lyrium around here - with what Varric has told us, we cannot afford to stay here long. Let us see this finished.”

Another Orlesian voice called out to them, but it was Leliana arriving with a small group of archers and a handful of soldiers, the Commander on her heels. “You made it!”

“What kept you?” Cassandra demanded.

The Left Hand slid a look to Evelyn. “I retrieved our scouts from the mountain pass. Solas’s instinct was right; there was a rift. We were able to distract the demons temporarily with a goat carcass.”

Evelyn winced. “I don’t think I want to know the details.”

The Commander grimaced. “You don’t.” He wheeled around and began giving orders for the archers to take positions. 

With a few well placed footsteps, Solas herded Evelyn farther apart from Cassandra. He motioned toward the air in the middle of the blast crater they stood in. Evelyn looked, and frowned at the jagged green line that pulsed with a static energy. Her left hand thrummed in time with it. 

“It’s closed, sort of, but the Breach still pulls energy from it,” he told her. “With the mark, I think you can reopen it so that we can seal it properly and cut that energy off. This rift was first; it’s the key.” He pointed to the swirling tendril of green emanating from it that widened into the pulsing column feeding the Breach, which trembled and expanded with each shift in energy. “But doing so will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons!” Cassandra called out to the archers and handful of fighters arrayed around the Commander. 

Open the rift? Evelyn squinted at the crack of green. Experimentally, she lifted her left hand and spread her fingers, waiting for the tug of power. Instead it felt as though she’d pressed her palm against a window pane. Solas watched her carefully, frowning. “Can you -” he began, but an odd sensation trembled in her fingertips, as though she’d somehow found a...ledge? A crack? 

_ Open the window _ , she thought, and suddenly she was ten again, trapped in the wine cellar in the Teyrn’s castle at Ostwick, fingers searching the darkness for anything, anything at all that could help. Climbing shelves like ladders, broken glass at her feet. Up and up, away from the rats, from the stink of her gore-covered cloak. 

A dusky light, dim through thick layers of dust and there...just there...a thin crack where wood met stone. She pushed, with all the desperation she could muster. She dug in her fingers until her nails cracked further and her skin tore, the tiny bones in her left pinky cracking under her panicked strength. The window gave way and she was free, blind in the light and crawling toward the vague shape of men in armor. 

Except the light was blindingly green.

The rift was open. Evelyn’s attention snapped to the present in just enough time to see a flood of Shades pour out of the rift, followed by a massive, hulking form. “Pride demon!” she heard the Commander call out to the soldiers. “Don’t let it touch you, and watch out for the -”

He never got to finish the order as a long whip of crackling purple energy smacked him square in the breastplate and tumbled him backward. “Cullen!” Cassandra yelled, darting forward and smashing her shield into the towering demon’s leg. It merely laughed and wreathed itself in lightning. 

Evelyn drew her blades and set to work on a few nearby Shades. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the Commander, resilient and back on his feet. He’d seemingly gotten a sense of the demon’s movements, as he now moved in time with it to block the lashes from others with his shield. Quick learner.

She tried to stay within the halo of buzzing energy around the rift, pulling and tugging where she could to try and close it, but there were so many pressing to get through. All she could manage to do was release a wave of stunning energy here and there that gained them momentary advantages, but at each turn the Pride demon rallied and seemingly called for more through the rift. 

A grunt came from behind her, and she turned to see Solas knocked off his feet by a Shade with an odd red crest along its back. She tossed her left-handed blade and caught it in the shoulder, buying him time to grab his staff in both hands and shove the Shade off of him with remarkable force. He was strong beneath all those layers, the litheness of his elven body disguising it as mere grace.

That thought gave her an idea. A really, truly, incredibly stupid idea. “Solas! Shield!”

He turned to her. “What?”

She pointed to a discarded shield near him. “Shield!”

He picked it up and looked back at her in confusion. “Why-”

“Toss me!”

“What? No!” But she was already running full speed at him. “You’re mad!” 

She flicked gore off her right-handed blade as she ran, drawing one of the hunting knives from her belt with her left. Solas’s eyes widened and he let loose a string of Elvehn words she couldn’t follow, but would bet were curses. She grinned.

He looked behind him quickly as she approached, then knelt and extended the shield, bracing it with his knee. She vaulted onto it just as he did so and he extended the motion into a swing, pushing up with a strangled cry somewhere between a grunt and a prayer. He was as strong as she’d hoped, and she vaulted into the air behind the Pride demon. 

Just high enough to bury her blades in the back of its neck. 

She braced her knees and boot toes against the chitinous covering of its back as it roared in pain and fury. Below her on the ground, she could just make out the stunned expression on Cassandra’s face. The Commander had already taken advantage of the distraction to drive a punishing blow into the demon’s right knee, and the Seeker shook herself and followed suit with the left. 

Ice encased the demon’s lightning whip, and she heard Solas’s strained cry of “Hurry!” He had to be near burning out. She wasn’t sure what that was like for mages, but Max had described purging a mage’s reservoir of magic - mana, they called it - before it could recover. It knocked most unconscious. 

The demon stumbled but she held on, readjusting her grip and pulling out the longer right-handed blade. It roared again and nearly shook her off. She lost her footing and her body swung outward, only her grasp on the hunting dagger holding her. Something snapped painfully in her forearm, but she braced her feet on the demon’s back and pushed herself up and over its shoulder, swinging the longer blade around and across what passed for its throat. 

Black tendrils of smoke erupted, surrounding a voluminous spray of viciously green fluid as the demon fell foreward. Her own momentum swung her back around its rear and she rolled off, falling the last few feet and slamming into the rock beneath. A pair of gauntleted hands turned her over, the Commander’s face swimming in her vision as she cracked her eyes open. 

His were wide. “The rift, can you close it?”

Evelyn grunted and moved her left arm. It screamed in agony, or maybe that was her, but she reached for the energy and pulled with every ounce of energy she had left. 

And then she blacked out. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a chance to throw a little elven influence in Evelyn's background. Solas has such a low opinion of humans, so I wanted something that would grab his attention. She's no expert, her one influence being her aunt, but she spent a lot of time with that aunt and uncle, as will be told later. 
> 
> I really enjoyed getting to be friends with Solas as a human in the game (though mage is still my favorite play-through and yes, of course I made a female elf so I could enter Solavellan hell). I wanted to take the bones of the game and flesh out these relationships, and the friendship with Solas is one of them. Right from the start, even in my first play through, I felt more attached to Solas and Varric as the misfits of the camp, rather than Cassandra and the Inquisition people that locked me up and almost executed me.


	4. The Inquisition of New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pitter patter, let's get at 'er. Time to get this Inquisition rolling.

She swam up through darkness and memory, battle clashing in her head. Blissfully, there was no pain, no vibrant and menacing green light. Warmth and woodsmoke, soft fur and linen. She could smell crisp snow, dried herbs, old pine sap. Soft creak of door hinges and light footsteps, a light female voice humming to herself. 

Evelyn cracked her eyes open to the golden glow of a small yet decently appointed cabin. She was covered by comfortable bed linens and a bear pelt blanket that warded off the mountain chill she could feel whistling through the cabin’s timber frame. She no longer smelled horrible, a sort of lemony pleasant scent clinging to her skin instead. She didn’t recall bathing, and figured someone must have attended her while she healed. Or she was dead. Either way, at least she was clean?

With a small groan she sat up, though was pleasantly surprised to find only stiffness in her joints and no lingering agony from wounds. Even her left hand was blessedly quiet. She looked up at the sound of something falling, and found that same frightened elf girl staring back at her, then falling to her feet in some kind of supplication.

“What are you-”

The elf stammered apologies, and Evelyn was unable to get in a word edgewise for a good few minutes. At last, she gave up on warmth and pushed aside the blankets, her bare feet meeting chilled wooden board and a soft wool rug. A simple wool shift covered her down to her ankles, at least, though it was a good bit larger than her own frame. 

Evelyn knelt before the elf and tugged gently at her hands, which made the girl look at her in surprise. “Come now, there’s no need for deference,” Evelyn told her. “I’m not anyone’s lady or mistress here, I’m a prisoner, though at least they seem less angry with me than before. Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”

It was no use, the elf gasping out an apology and then leaping to her feet to go and find the lady Seeker. “Where is Cassandra?” she asked instead.

“The Chantry, I believe, I must -” more stammered apologies and then the girl disappeared, leaving behind the box of dried elfroot and other herbs she’d been carrying. 

Evelyn sat back on her heels, frowning. The youth had been frightened of her in the dungeon, but now seemed frightened in a different sort of way. It was almost...reverent? How odd. 

With Ostwick’s open trading policy with nearby Dalish clans - which not even her disturbingly devout uncle had managed to overturn - the alienage in the city had never grown very large. A previous Teyrn had gifted a large Chantry garden to the alienage when a number of its inhabitants had converted, and as a result it was a large market neighborhood with the best apples in the city. The low rate of crime in comparison to other Marcher cities with alienages, like Kirkwall, had kept subsequent Teyrns and city councils from disturbing it or reclaiming the land for the Chantry. 

Even then, the elves in the alienage had largely kept to themselves. Her own interaction with them had been to buy apple pastries during Harvestmere festivities, and little else. And aside from Mirana and the few Dalish that occasionally passed through her father’s lands, she’d had little experience with elves in general, her aunt her only real source of information.

Or perhaps the servant was just simply shy and it had nothing to do with being an elf. 

The cold began to seep through her wool shift, and Evelyn stood, grateful for the sizeable hearth at her back. She stretched experimentally, vaguely remembering something snapping her left arm. It seemed fine, however, well healed from the ordeal. A sense of unease descended. She hadn’t really thought she’d live through it, when it came to it, and now she had.

But Max and Edmund and Lilith were dead. 

It hurt, the realization. Behind the hurt, however, a familiar furnace was stoking itself. She was  _ angry _ . Hang the Chantry’s sham trial, they could come for her if they wanted, but she was going to find out who did this, and she was going to make them pay. 

She’d approach the Seeker - Cassandra had fought beside her, she had seen that Evelyn had worked with her and not against. Perhaps she’d listen. 

…. 

Cullen held the sword up to the morning sun and inspected the edge. Right as rain. Harrit did good work. “Roderick wants to talk,” Cassandra told him.

He sighed. “No, Roderick wants to yell and wave his arms and pretend to be in charge.” Sheathing the blade, he turned to face Cassandra, wondering if she knew that her face was an open book of doubt and determination. “So what are you going to do?”

“You’re asking me?”

“You’re still the Right Hand of the Divine, Cass. You and Leliana are in charge, for now. Not that puffed up little prick.” He stretched. “Eventually, if you intend to continue with this Inquisition initiative, you’ll need to pick a leader, and soon. There’s only so long we can hold out for Hawke.”

Cassandra glanced sideways at him. “Varric said you let her go.”

“I am not in the habit of taking my friends prisoner,” he responded acidly, glancing up at the horizon, where the shimmering green of the Breach had at least stopped pulsing menacingly. 

They’d been over this, and past it, and yet Cassandra wanted to keep retreading the same old ground. “I told you before that Marian gave me no warning before leaving Kirkwall again, and that I would let you know if I ever heard from her. I still have not. Without the Kirkwall Circle holding her sister, she has very little reason to remain attached to that place, and every reason to be in the wind trying to keep Bethany out of this chaos.” 

She grunted in acknowledgement. 

Cullen looked up at her. “Hawke had nothing to do with this, Cass.” He shook his head before Cassandra could even respond. “You can stop worrying about that. She was  _ devastated _ by Anders’ betrayal, and horrified by his actions. She wanted to kill him, but they’d been close. Too close, so I understand. It broke her heart but she couldn’t bear to hurt him.”

“She told you all this?” Cassandra stared at him. “That little shit Varric said nothing of a relationship between them. I thought the Champion and that former slave…”

Cullen shrugged. “Fenris, he goes by. I think they did eventually, I’m not sure. I didn’t keep track of Hawke’s rather disastrous and drama-ridden love life. Avelline had asked me to help find her, though, after…” He sighed. “She was blind drunk in a gutter and crying the entire time we dragged her - all three of us in full armor, mind you, which was a delight - back home.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I respect Hawke immensely, but you should know what you’re asking for.” He gave Cassandra a half-smile. “She’s a skilled fighter, but more subtle with a blade than her tongue, which is the diplomatic equivalent of a brick to the face.”

“...I still think...oh, I don’t know. I’d thought that if we found Hawke before the Conclave, both sides would somehow listen to her. They did in Kirkwall. You did, the mages did.”

He rubbed his face briefly, trying to warm his nose a little so it stopped itching in the cold. “They still might. I don’t know, Cassandra, I honestly don’t. I can lead our forces, I can take command of supply lines and training drills and battlefields, but beyond that I’m afraid I couldn’t say what the future holds for any of us. I don’t know what the right path is here. I only have a sense of the wrong one, and that’s trusting what’s left of the Chantry right now.”

A breeze blew a bit of snow from a nearby ledge onto his neck, but the chill was nice. Having been up all night between nightmares and sickness, the cold kept him alert. He’d already left most of his lighter ceremonial armor in his cabin, taking only a pair of metal and leather vambraces to wear with a tunic and trousers. A half cloak that was Ferelden in design, but not (as Sister Leliana put it)  _ too _ Ferelden, sat beside him on top of a stack of crates that was functioning as his field desk for the moment. 

Cassandra, in contrast, had opted for her Seeker’s breastplate on top of her usual tailored and silverite-lined leather and wool light armor. There were more than a handful of soldiers in the encampment whose eyes tended to follow her where she walked, but they were careful to be respectful and unnoticed. Every man there knew what Cullen was capable of, and half of them had witnessed Cassandra getting him in a headlock in under a minute during one of their sparring practices. 

He  _ still _ had yet to work out how she’d managed to use his own weight against him like she had.

“So what are you going to do, Lady Seeker Pentaghast?” Cullen asked quietly. “Are we going to let whomever did this win?”

Her face grew taught and she met his eyes at last, the anger outweighing her self-doubt. She’d done as much for him on that terrible trip across the Waking Sea, it was the least he could do for her. “No. We move forward.”

He inclined his head in deference. “You have my blade, Lady Cassandra.”

Determination hardened her expression and she gave a short nod of satisfaction. “Thank you, Commander Cullen.”

….

A quick search of the cabin revealed a pair of heavy cotton trousers and a simple tunic. They were a little on the small side but fit well enough and she could hide the short trouser ends in boots. A simple brown wool cloak, and a leather sword belt completed it. Someone had left a pair of decently smithed short swords for her. So perhaps she was no longer a prisoner? 

A note in an unfamiliar hand read:  _ Blacksmith is working on a custom harness, belt will have to do for now. Try drawing from the hip one at a time, in a spin. That should serve. - CR _

Interesting, but she would think on it later. She opened the door of the cabin and nearly shut it again in surprise. A crowd of people had gathered, but there were no weapons drawn, only curious looks. A far cry from the accusatory glares of before, these were grateful, and just like that elf girl, almost reverent. 

Evelyn swallowed, but eased her face into a neutral expression. Some of her grandmother’s lessons in deportment had sunk in, even if she rarely bothered with them any longer. Ruining engagement options her uncle put forward with rude speech and general uncouthness was simply far too enjoyable a pastime. 

Whispers followed her through the encampment and she caught fragments of conversations. Something about Andraste. Well, Haven was a site for pilgrims headed to the Temple, so that wasn’t surprising. What that had to do with Evelyn, she wasn’t sure. She kept her eyes resolutely on the Chantry doors.

She felt grateful for whomever had provided the thick cotton clothing and cloak. She’d have preferred a few dozen more layers as the cold made her right leg ache a bit. It had never healed right from that time in the caves, and she was stiff from sleeping on it without stretching properly first.

As she approached the Chantry Mother’s office in the rear of the great stone building, she heard raised voices. Evelyn paused long enough to deduce that the lady Seeker and that Chantry cleric from before were arguing over her fate. Wonderful. At least it sounded as though she’d won Cassandra over, so that was something. 

She all but kicked the door in, and the room jumped. Everyone looked startled except for Sister Leliana, who leaned against the far wall half in shadow. She merely smirked at Evelyn, but damn her if she could tell if it was in approval or menace. The Chancellor called for her arrest, but Evelyn met Cassandra’s eyes and held them in challenge. 

The Seeker was already calling out to negate the order, and the soldiers turned on their heels and left them with a sputtering Chancellor. Evelyn turned on him, fighting to keep her temper in control. “You lot threw me in a dungeon and clamped me in irons, deciding my guilt before so much as asking my name,” she hissed at him. “I will not stand to your sham trial as you try and find any scapegoat to appease public outrage and gain political power. I know how things are done in Orlais, and I refuse to be your pawn. I will find whomever murdered my family, and I will make them pay, with or without Chantry help.”

“We will do it together,” Cassandra said firmly, slamming a thick tome down on the table that had once served as a gathering place for the Chantry sisters over breakfast prayers. Now it was covered in maps and stacks of parchment, chess pieces used as map markers, and half-empty cups. Someone had been busy. “Do you know what this is?” she asked, pointing to the emblem emblazoned on the cover. It looked not unlike the one on her own breastplate, but with a stylized sword behind the all-seeing eye. 

Evelyn had never seen it before, but Chancellor Roderick inhaled sharply in recognition. “A holy writ from Divine Justinia,” Sister Leliana spoke in her quiet but commanding voice, “authorizing us to reform the Inquisition. This was her plan for peace: a neutral organization dedicated to bringing order in a time of chaos. She knew the Chantry itself no longer harbored any trust from mages or the Templar Order, and sought to find a middle ground where we could talk.” She shrugged. “And if that failed, fight until all parties surrendered.”

That would explain their highly skilled commander, Evelyn supposed. She watched in some satisfaction as the Seeker made her point, literally as well as figuratively, jabbing a gloved finger into the Chancellor’s chest and backing him out the door. He turned and left, attempting to slam the door closed, but the heavy oak refused to oblige him. 

Evelyn turned to Cassandra. “So. You think I’m innocent now? Or are you going to try and put me in irons again?”

“No one is going to lock you up,” Leliana said.

“No,” she agreed, “I said you’d try, not that you’d succeed.”

Cassandra’s stance relaxed a little. “You were right. We did not...I did not...consider all angles as carefully as I should have. Yes, I believe you are innocent.”

Evelyn blinked at the Seeker. A part of her was still furious, but the rest was caught off guard by the evidently unfamiliar look of regret and reticence on Cassandra’s normally stern face. The Seeker actually fidgeted. “I will take that as the apology it was apparently intended to be,” Evelyn drawled and the Seeker relaxed gratefully.

Templars. Maker’s breath. She was just like Edmund.

Evelyn looked down at the faint line on her palm. It hadn’t reddened like a normal scar, and was thin. Perhaps Solas had tried to heal it while she slept but had not entirely succeeded. At least it was quiet, only a very faint hum from it, as though she held her palm against the warm flank of a horse. “So the Breach is stable, but closing that rift didn’t close it.”

“We need more power,” Cassandra told her. “I wondered if it would have worked if you were a mage, perhaps, but Solas says one person’s power wouldn’t have been enough. He did...something, I’m not sure, but somehow managed to channel some of his remaining power into you to help close the rift before you fell unconscious. It gave him a sense of what kind of power we’ll need.”

“Commander Rutherford isn’t going to like approaching the rebel mages,” Leliana pointed out, finger tracing the emblem on the divine writ. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Cassandra said. “Right now…”

“Right now,” Leliana interrupted, “we have no allies, no resources, no leader, barely any soldiers. If we’re going to do this, we need help.” She lifted her eyes from the tome and met Evelyn’s. “We need a figurehead.”

Cassandra shifted a little. “People here saw they were wrong about you. Stories spread quickly of how bravely you fought at the Temple, and what was heard in the echoes of the Fade up there. You were also...when you were found, some claim to have seen the bright outline of a woman behind you. You also said there was someone there.”

Evelyn frowned. “It’s...blurry. I couldn’t say who it was or even if they were truly there. It could have just been a trick of light and shadow.”

“You stepped out of the Fade,” Leliana said. “We know so little. Even Solas, who’s spent his life studying it, could not say how you did so. No one has entered the Fade physically in a thousand years, and then only if the stories of the Magisters Sidereal are to be believed as truth and not metaphor.” 

“So there might have actually been a woman,” Cassandra said. “And. Well. Some are saying that it was Andraste.”

At that, Evelyn barked a surprised laugh. “If it were Andraste, I’m sure she’d have saved someone other than me. Literally anyone else. Like the Divine.”

“Be that as it may,” Leliana replied, her eyes shifting downward and blinking hard once, twice. Evelyn felt instantly sorry that she’d brought up the Divine’s death. These two women were her Hands, they’d been close. Family, practically. “That has not stopped the rumors that you are blessed. Favored, even.”

“You have not stopped the rumors, you mean,” Evelyn noted. “So what does this all mean?”

Cassandra turned around to face her. “It means that we need your help, Lady Trevelyan. You remain our only source of closing these Fade rifts, you are a skilled fighter, and whether you want it or not, you’ve started inspiring our people. We need that, especially now.”

Well, this had gotten complicated, but was more or less moving in the direction she’d intended when she’d set out to the Chantry. “Tell me about this Inquisition first.”

Leliana gave her a brief outline that was obviously shortened and didn’t give Evelyn any more than she’d known from her own history tutor. There was more to it, to how the Seekers and the Templars were tied to it and what made the Seekers different. Not even Max, who’d been on the fast-track for the Knight-Commander position in Ostwick whenever Ser Lucas retired, had known anything about the Seekers.

The Chantry did love its secrets. 

“All right, then,” Evelyn said. “We’ve got an advantage in this mark, let’s use it. I’ll make an effort not to blaspheme in front of any soldiers, but in return, I want vengeance.” 

She swallowed, and unclenched her right hand, stretching the fingers and focusing on that instead of her anger. “You should know something. Three of my cousins were at the Conclave. We were close as children, practically siblings. Maxwell and Edmund were in the Order, and Lilith was a Chantry sister, just taken her vows. We...had a falling out, a disagreement years ago. After Ostwick’s Circle fell, I supplied aid to the rebel mages, I won’t lie about it. I’m sure you already know,” she added as an aside to Leliana, “but you should hear it from me. They were injured, scared. My uncle Aidan and I provided them with food, medicine. What became of them after, I’m not sure, and it was only a handful of them that had escaped the Rite of Annulment. 

“Edmund confronted me about it and the two of us came to blows, but Max intervened. He wanted a peaceful resolution. He didn’t want to kill all the mages, he said. He was...Max was a good man, despite our disagreements.” She closed her eyes for a moment, the other two women allowing her silence in which to regain mastery of herself. “At any rate, Max found me later and asked me to join him at the Conclave. I had shown him that my black sheep uncle and I weren’t the smugglers Edmund had taken us for, but that those smugglers did exist. He could be shrewd, Max, and he realized that smugglers and mercenaries alike both had a stake in the conflict continuing. Where there’s money to be made…”

“There’s motive,” Leliana agreed. “But why ask you?”

“Because of some unsavory connections I made over the years. The supplies I got for the mages were from a smuggling company that operates largely out of Kirkwall and Starkhaven, but they’re not unknown in Ostwick. My uncle was disinherited when he married my aunt, who is in turn an exiled Dalish elf, so...well. They make their living as they must, and though they’re honorable, there are many who aren’t.”

“Your father is a Bann in Ostwick, with a sizeable holding outside the city. He’s first in line as heir to your other uncle, the Teyrn. You are his only child, so I understand. Why allow you in the company of his other, disgraced brother at all?” Leliana had tilted her head and now studied Evelyn as though she were a puzzle. She supposed she was.

“I was a...bit of a handful,” Evelyn drawled. “I chafed at the restrictions of noble life, and my father thought it best if I perhaps worked out some of my energy in a more...free environment. Away from the Teyrn’s assassins.”

Cassandra stared at her. “Your own uncle tried to have you killed? Why?”

“How very Orlesian,” Leliana commented. “Your grandmother was Orlesian, no?”

“Yes,” Evelyn replied with a half-smile, “and yes. And he tried to have me killed because when his eldest daughter died, the rest of his children entered the Chantry, thus disavowing themselves of their inheritance. I refused to do so and as my father is still in standing with the family, I became his heir. I didn’t want it, but well. That’s how things are.”

“And exiling yet another brother would cause a scandal that would tear down House Trevelyan from power in Ostwick.” Leliana nodded. “Yes. I see where assassins would come in handy. And now his other children…”

“He will blame me,” Evelyn said in resignation. “Of course he will.”

“Assassins?” Cassandra asked, and looked to Leliana.

It was Evelyn that replied. “Uncle Aidan has an...understanding with the House of Crows. I usually get warning ahead of time. The House of Repose in Orlais refuses dealings with the Teyrn - he can’t pay them enough.” She shrugged. “I can handle the Crows.”

“ _ We _ will handle the Crows,” Leliana told her. “I, too, have contacts there, not to worry. Why does your uncle blame you for Lady Katherine’s death? I understand you were attacked by bandits when you were children?”

Bandits. Yes. But it wasn’t bandits, was it? That was just the story.

_ Darkspawn. _

She wouldn’t say it, not ever. Not the way they’d look at her, like they were just waiting, waiting for her to become a monster. Like she’d infect them, kill them where they stood or worse. 

“I killed the one who tried to kill me. But Katie still died.”

“You were ten.”

“And you killed a man?” Cassandra whispered, horrified.

_ Not a man _ . “Yes. I guess. I don’t really remember it. I was terrified, and there was a rock and I’m told I smashed his face in.” The crunch of gristle and bone. The smell of putrification. Black blood on her face, her mouth, and the clench of her stomach as she vomited over and over and over. 

Evelyn closed her eyes and focused as Mirana had taught her. Inhale, smell. Warm beeswax candles, ink from the open inkwell on the table. Musty stone. Exhale, hear. Rustling of armor and cloth, soft breathing, a gentle swearing rounded and rolling in a Nevarran accent. Calmness. Control. “I didn’t save her. Whether or not I could have doesn’t matter. That I was ten and she sixteen didn’t matter. I lived. She did not. I was only a target for his ire when there was nothing else he could blame.”

_ Because I didn’t even sicken. Because I fought off a Darkspawn and lived and didn’t become a ghoul. Because I survived, and my father refused to allow me to be sold off to the Wardens, or marriage, or Chantry service. Even when I wish I hadn’t, I survived and still exist, a perpetual thorn in my damned uncle’s side, and he will hate me until his last breath for it. _ Those were words she did not say, would not. 

It didn’t matter now. There was no Blight, this had nothing to do with the Darkspawn. “If you have parchment and a raven to spare, I will write to my uncle Aidan. He’ll have contacts we can explore - if there are any groups boasting to themselves of stopping the peace talks, he’ll be able to catch wind of it. And I need to let my parents know I survived.” She’d have to word that letter carefully. Her father would pack up everything and head straight to Haven without so much as a thought to who would defend his lands while he was gone. Protecting the refugee settlement from bandits, rogue Templars, or mages was one thing, but when news reached the Teyrn of his childrens’ death there was no telling how he’d react. Especially when that news accompanied the announcement of her survival and apparent blessing. He’d lose his mind, and might use it as an excuse to annex Annreth into Ostwick City’s coffers like he’d always wanted. 

Leliana nodded. “We have much work to do.”

Cassandra reached for the writ. “Then let’s be at it.”

  
  



	5. Whatever Chaos the Morrow Brings

The next few weeks passed in a bit of a blur for Evelyn. There were meetings and quite honestly, if she never had to hear another raven caw, she’d be happy. The letter she received from home was written in her mother’s hand, which concerned Evelyn at first until she noted that her mother firmly agreed with her and was keeping her father at home. It was often joked that the only monarch William Trevelyan ever acknowledged was his own wife, Elinor. 

She penned a quick reply, asking for news of her uncle and instructions to send him or Mirana to Haven at their earliest ability. Most likely, the entire caravan would show up. The ruckus that would cause was enough to make Evelyn chortle. 

A knock at her cabin door drew her attention away from further correspondence. She called out that it was open, and Varric Tethras entered. He looked around curiously. “You get a cabin, all I get is a tent.”

“You’ve bunked in the tavern attic and everyone knows you like it there best.”

He laughed. “That’s no lie. I’m a city boy; I’m used to noise. It’s too quiet out here.”

She turned around in her chair to face him as he took a seat on her neatly made bed, which was the only other seating option around. It didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. From what she’d picked up on, Varric was a rogue in temper but not so much in deed. Much to the eternal disappointment of a few barmaids who continually sighed over the swarthy dwarf, especially when he got to telling stories around the tavern hearth at night. 

He did have a rather compelling voice, and was a gifted storyteller. But Evelyn recognized that reserve, having exercised it herself. He was not one given to engaging in entangling affairs of the heart - or body - and that wasn’t a tree she’d be barking up anytime soon. Besides, his presence was comforting, not unsettling in the toe-curling way one looked for in a potential bed partner. 

Not that she was particularly looking for one. This absurd Herald business sort of tied her hands in that regard. Most people looked at her with awe bordering on reverence, which was also not conducive to anything that might lead to exciting nocturnal activities. And she was busy. Maker, was she busy. 

And this anger that simmered under her skin...this wasn’t going to be resolved or released or even distracted by a quick romp or two. The only relief she felt was in physical training, and she was itching to get into a fight. Nothing quite as calming as a broken bone or two, honestly. 

But again...this Herald nonsense was too useful to disregard, and she sincerely doubted a Herald of Andraste would be given to starting bar fights. Not that there was anyone to even fight in the tavern here - any locals from the village or remnants of the Conclave that chose to stay behind had been swept up into the Inquisition. As part of the governing council, she probably shouldn’t start throwing random punches at any of them. 

“So,” Varric asked, leaning against the wooden cabin wall the bed was pushed against, “how are you holding up?”

Evelyn rested her chin on the back of the chair. “Fine.”

He leveled a look at her. 

“Not fine,” she admitted. “This shit is crazy, Varric. How am I alive?”

Varric offered a half-smile. “No idea. Maybe they’re onto something with this Herald stuff?” He shrugged, slightly self-conscious. He’d let slip a few times comments that made her think that perhaps he was a little more Andrastian than not, which was surprising in a dwarf. They tended toward practicality, not mysticism. But Varric the storyteller...dwarves didn’t dream while they slept, but Varric dreamed on paper well enough for anyone. 

Evelyn shook her head slightly. “It’s nonsense. I’m the last person that would be chosen by anything divine.”

“I don’t know about that, kid,” he replied. “You’re shrewd, you’re able to dance between our spymaster, our diplomat, and our commander and keep them all pulling in the same direction. You’ve made the Lady Seeker do a complete about-face on her opinion of you, which is hella impressive. I know you didn’t want this role, didn’t even want to be here, but you are and you’re changing everyone around you for the better.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Varric.” She gave him an exaggerated roguish wink and waggled her eyebrows.

He laughed. “That’s why I’m good at it. But seriously, I hope you see that. You’re needed, and not just for that glowing green thing on your hand.”

She frowned. “I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest. I just want to find who did this and bring them to justice. My family deserves that much.” She’d told him about her cousins a week or so ago, while down in a delightful spiral of self-loathing and grief over a pint of Flissa’s bitter ale. Varric had listened patiently, then hauled her out of the tavern and out of her grief with some hardened wisdom. He was also stronger than he looked, having dragged her back to her cabin, though he still complained about the vomit stain. She’d had to buy him a new coat. 

“You need to get out of Haven for a bit. Go talk to Leliana. I saw a raven come in a little while ago, and I know they’ve been trying to get a foothold out in the Hinterlands to start sticking space between the mages and Templars that are going at it out there. Hopefully to talk sense into one or both groups, maybe, I don’t know. I’m not a diplomat.”

“If I go to the ass-end of Ferelden, I’m making you go with me.”

Varric shuddered dramatically. “But they have bears there!”

She grinned. “And you have Bianca.”

…

It was decided quickly enough that she’d take a party out to the Hinterlands to meet with a Chantry mother that wanted to speak with her. Cassandra insisted on going with her, whether for protection or out of some lingering suspicion of her, Evelyn wasn’t sure. Frankly, she didn’t really care. The Seeker was a force of nature in a fight and had better knowledge of fighting both mages and Templars than she did, and they were likely to run into both.

The thought of possibly fighting mages made her approach Solas and ask for his help, which he readily agreed to. There was something like relief in his face, and she thought maybe he was experiencing the same sort of chaffing feeling she was. As an apostate mage in a camp full of Chantry members and former Chantry forces, it couldn’t be comfortable for him. 

True to her word, she’d leveled a look at Varric that told the dwarf there was to be no argument, he was going with her. “Like I’d miss seeing you in action again, kid,” he told her, then grumbled as he realized they’d have to make their way on horseback. 

“I’ll find you a nice pony,” she called out, laughing at the rude gesture he tossed her way as she headed back to her cabin to finalize packing. 

A knock came at her door as she was buckling the last of her packs. Mostly dried herbs she knew were useful in a pinch, along with a few other healing supplies. A bundle of small parchment suitable for messages by raven, as regular post would be difficult out in such chaos. Knife-sharpening tools, minimal clothing - she’d be in fighting leathers most of the time anyway, and what she was taking could be washed in a stream easily enough without damage. It wouldn’t be her first time on a backwoods journey. She packed a handful of hunting knives, snare wire, and flint as well, and twine for drying hide, and a few spices she’d nicked from the kitchen that were good for wild game. 

“Come in,” she called.

The door opened and the tall frame of Commander Rutherford all but filled the doorway. “Herald,” he greeted. 

“Commander,” she replied. “Leave the door open, would you? I doused the fire, but it’s still warm in here.”

He cast a practiced eye over her leather and light mail armor. “Everything fits well, then?”

“Perfectly, actually. Harrit’s a gift, isn’t he?”

He gave her a half-smile at that. “Yes, gruff and masterful, exactly how I like my blacksmiths.”

Evelyn snorted. “Double on the gruff. That man’s made of sandpaper. The sword harness is perfect, thank you.”

The Commander tilted his head curiously. “Solas says that fighting style you use is elven. I’ve never seen anything like it, it’s impressive.”

“I can teach you if you like,” she told him. “You’ve got the quick footing for it.”

“Only if you let me improve your shield blocking. It’s atrocious. Though you have the arm strength for it, you only use it defensively.”

Evelyn blinked. “I...thank you? I have no idea if that was a compliment or an insult or both.”

He looked chagrined. “Sorry. I spend all day training recruits, I tend to get a little gruff myself, I suppose.”

“Quite all right,” she told him, hefting one of the packs and handing him the other. “I’d prefer a gruff man in charge of an army instead of an overly polite one. ‘Please and thank you’ isn’t going to get a scared soldier to pick up a sword properly. You don’t waste energy, and I appreciate that, it makes you a good leader on the battlefield. I remember how you fought up on the temple mount, how the men looked to you. You didn’t even blink when that Pride demon came tumbling out of the rift and that gave the soldiers confidence against it.”

She led them out of the cabin and toward the stable where her horse waited.

“Well,” he replied, clearing his throat in discomfort at the praise, “I wasn’t the one that jumped on its back and stabbed it in the neck.”

“I like to make a point, you know?”

He snorted and looked at her, a different sort of assessment in his gaze. “That you do.”

He held her horse steady for her as she buckled on her packs. “Was there something specific you wanted or did you just want to check on the supplies?” 

The Commander chewed the inside of his lip from a moment before responding. “We need soldiers,” he said finally. “We don’t know what’s behind all this, but the amount of power...whatever it is, it’s big and we’re woefully unprepared for it. I don’t...I know you’re not comfortable with this title, but you’re willing to use it. I’m not asking you to pretend to perform miracles, but anywhere you can see to extend the name and reach of the Inquisition in a positive way could lead to more recruits.”

She leaned against the wooden door of the stall and looked at him. He seemed uncomfortable to be asking this of her, but genuine in his concern. Evelyn had been honest in her praise; the man was a good commander, a good leader. She’d watched as he set up defenses around the village and Chantry grounds, how he thought and planned. He was military-minded but no less tactical than Leliana. And while he had no patience for the machinations of noble houses, he could see the workings of the Game as well as Josephine. Evelyn had nothing but respect for all three of them, and in concert with Cassandra’s passion and drive, they were a good team. If the Commander was concerned, she should listen. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she told him. “We don’t know what we’re walking into, but from the scouting party’s reports, it’s a bit of a mess. We need to see if we can settle things for the refugees from the rebellion fighting there or we’ll get an influx of them here, and we can’t handle that strain. Besides,” she added, rolling her neck and stretching a little before she led her horse from its stall, “those people have been displaced enough as it is.”

“Agreed.” He patted the horse’s flank then gave her a nod of approval as she mounted. “Safe travels, Herald.”

She watched him walk away, giving parting words to the rest of the party and a handful of soldiers and scouts that were accompanying them. Reinforcements would arrive once they established a foothold beyond the initial camp. 

With his tall stature and broad shoulders accentuated by the official mantle he wore - designed by Leliana’s deft hand, she’d learned - he stood out from the rest of them. The fur lining of the cloak, the colors of the Templar Order if not the design, the sunlight glinting off the everite breastplate and pauldrons...he was more walking symbol than man. As no doubt intended. With his ferocity in combat coupled with his fair hair and now that mantle, some of the soldiers had taken to nicknaming him the Lion of Ferelden. 

He’d hate it, she had a feeling, but he wouldn’t counter it. He seemed the sort of man to realize that soldiers needed an ideal to look up to, not an actual person. 

For a moment, she wondered who the actual person really was and if it was lonely to live under the weight of that expectation. Then she chastised herself for the thought, for was she not doing the same? 

Loneliness wasn’t an emotion she had time for, and she expected the Commander felt the same. 

And if he didn’t, well...he’d feel miles better when she brought him back a crop of fresh recruits, wouldn’t he? She smiled grimly to herself and spurred her horse into a trot. Time to get going.

…

  
  


It wasn’t until the snow-capped peaks faded into a sea of rolling green hills and grey granite outcroppings that Evelyn felt like she could breathe again. She sat some distance from the campfire, legs dangling over a sloped and rocky ledge, watching the sunset bathe the land in gold. Ostensibly, she knew they were only half a day’s travel from the village at the Crossroads, but here on the cusp of things, the land seemed empty, vast and wild. Beautiful in its untamed glory. 

“Such a lovely place to have seen such sorrow,” Solas murmured, stopping to take a seat beside her. 

“It’s hard to remember there was a Blight here only ten years ago. Though I suppose less difficult for the Fereldens to remember.” She sighed. “Darkspawn aren’t something you forget encountering.”

“You’ve encountered them, then. I had wondered from some of your comments.” It wasn’t a question. Damn. She should have known Solas and perceptiveness would root that out eventually. 

He waited patiently, and she relented, not really sure why. He’d told her little about himself other than a vague outline of a childhood spent studying the Fade in a form of lucid dreaming. At first she’d thought to ask him to teach her, but then the thought of walking her own nightmares consciously was a deterrent. But his company was so very calming. He was still in a way no one else was and she felt something close to at peace in his presence. 

The knowledge he wielded woke her natural curiosity, and for a time, whenever they discussed his visions and travels in the Fade, it was like she was a child again, piece by piece. The person she’d been turning into before that horrible night in the storm, before her curiosity was replaced by anger and the only learning she did was by the blade.

For the first time in a long time, Solas made her want to  _ know _ things. Everything. And he didn’t shrug off her questions or seem frustrated by them. It was the very opposite. Everytime she brought up a new point or asked him to describe something, he was pleased and happy to do so. They’d spent hours discussing the mark on her hand and what it might be able to do, theorizing on the relatively safe ways the Veil might be manipulated by it to their advantage. 

He told her everything he knew of the relationship between spirits and demons and it was fascinating. She’d never even considered the possibility, but if the Fade reflected reality back at itself, it made perfect sense. Far more sense than Chantry teachings, which they dived into discussing with equal relish, mostly out of earshot of Cassandra. 

Varric had listened to them discuss the differences between spirits themselves and spirit-based energy for only a few minutes before his eyes glazed over and he excused himself. He found bickering with Cassandra a more appealing alternative, apparently. 

“You do not have to tell me, my friend,” Solas told her now. “I can tell it is a painful memory for you.”

She’d never told anyone, but found the words so much closer to the surface than they’d ever been. Of all people...Solas had his secrets and kept them well, and she’d respected that distance he maintained. He’d keep hers, she could sense it.

“We were out late, my cousin and I,” she said softly, eyes on the horizon. Beside her, Solas sat as still as ever. “I’d read an old story about ruins outside Ostwick. We’d gone out with a handful of servants to pick herbs and flowers. Katie liked to distill perfumes and embroider these little Orlesian sachets to keep with the house linens. Made everything smell like lavender. The Teyrn’s keep had a garden, of course, but after their mother’s death it was mostly only used for the kitchen. When my uncle remarried, my new aunt used it for roses. Katie preferred the calmer scents of wildflowers and herbs.”

“She was your source for your herbal knowledge, I take it.”

Evelyn smiled slightly. “Mostly, yes. Mirana showed me a few things that I take it are specifically Dalish, but mostly it was Katie. As the oldest, she took care of siblings in the time between their mother’s passing and her father’s remarriage.”

“What did your aunt die of, if I might ask?”

She frowned. “I don’t recall. She’d been sick for a while, and Papa said she’d always been a little frail.”

“I see.”

Evelyn shifted positions, drawing her legs up underneath her and leaning forward with her elbows braced on her knees. “I persuaded Katie to stay out late, to go further than we should have into the woods. There was a cave. I’d wanted to find the evidence of former Avvar settlement that I’d read about. No Avvar had been sighted north of the Waking Sea in that part of the Free Marches in several Ages. It had been theorized by one scholar, though, that their settlement there predated the Tevinter occupation of the territory and I was convinced, as all children in their arrogance are, that I could find evidence.” She snorted. “Based on two books and an exchange of letters with a professor at the University of Orlais.”

“It is no crime to indulge your curiosity, Evelyn,” he said quietly.

She turned toward him. “It is when you lead your cousin into a cavern that had a broken entrance to the Deep Roads and her death.”

He drew in a long breath and let it out. “Ah.”

“I’m told it was a Hurlock Alpha.”

Even in the dimming light, she could see Solas wince. 

“It killed Katie. Snapped her neck like a twig and tossed her body into its fire. The servants we had with us included a pair of guards and they wounded it, but died doing so. One of his wounds, the other of the Blight sickness. My uncle paid his family handsomely to stay quiet about it. It was the Thaw - the Blight here had ended, but there were still Darkspawn raids on the surface. This was the first one near Ostwick, though, and my uncle didn’t want a panic.”

“Smart,” he acknowledged, “but I sense that isn’t the end of it.”

“I killed it. I don’t remember much. I only remember a blinding, driving rage. I literally saw red and I became something primal, something savage in my fear. I know I had a rock. I remember smashing its face in. I remember its blood in my mouth.” She paused, fighting down the nausea that always rose at the memory. “I remember heaving for what seemed like hours, over and over until there was nothing left in my stomach, until it felt like I was hollow.”

She picked at a blade of grass and twisted it between her fingers, need something to focus on that wasn’t Solas’s expression of sympathy. If she met his gaze, she’d break, and she couldn’t afford to. “I think that saved my life, though I wouldn’t know it until later. Whatever Blighted blood landed in my mouth, I’d gotten it out of my system quickly. I mean,” she added quickly, darting a glance at him to see if he’d recoiled in fear like so many others, “it’s been ten years. I’ve never heard of it waiting that long to claim a life. Have you?”

“Outside of the Grey Wardens, no.”

“The Wardens are Blighted?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know the particulars, but yes, it’s how they sense and fight Darkspawn. But we’re not discussing the Wardens, Evelyn.”

She let out a long sigh. “I know.”

“When they restrained you as you were first waking up,” Solas continued, “you screamed in such anguish and terror. I tried to get them to unbind you before you made yourself ill, but you fell unconscious again and they did not take my advice. I’m sorry. I did not know you, of course, but I would not wish such agony on any creature.”

“I don’t remember what happened after I killed the Darkspawn and was sick,” she told him. “It was night, it was cold, I remember that. They found us. I was huddled by Katie’s burnt corpse begging her to wake up. The guards of my uncles that found us wrapped her up but then tied my wrists together and put a sack over my head. They were going to drown me, but a scout had run ahead and told my mother, who was with us that summer in Ostwick, so they couldn’t. They brought me back to the Keep and my uncle locked me in the wine cellar, bound and in darkness. I don’t know how long I was down there.”

Solas cursed softly in Elvehn. “That’s horrible.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s practical if you look at it in a certain light.”

“I am sorry I thought so for a moment, my friend. No child should have to go through that.” 

She glanced at him. “Do you have children, Solas?”

“I?” he asked, surprised. “No, I do not. Why do you ask?”

“The anger with which you said that. Not everyone would agree with you. Children starve on city streets, serve in homes, factories…I only happened to be locked in a wine cellar for a few days. There are those who go through worse. It could have been worse. I’m not a mage, after all. Or an elf,” she added in a low voice. “I understand childhood isn’t easy in an alienage.”

“Nothing is easy in an alienage,” he said bitterly. They stared at the last fading red of the sunset, watching the dark blue of night descend. “In ancient times,” he continued in a wistful voice, “when it is said my people were near immortal, children were...difficult. They ancient elves bred little, and only with great difficulty was a child carried and born. They were considered precious, near sacred gifts.”

“A side effect of whatever magic kept them immortal?” she wondered.

“The magic they wielded was an effect itself, not the cause of the immortality, as I understand at least.”

“Magic doesn’t need to be wielded in order to have an effect on something,” she pointed out.

Solas gave her one of those genuinely pleased smiles he reserved for the times she poked a hole in his logic. “Perceptive, Evelyn.”

“I have my moments.”

He shifted his gaze back to the horizon. “How did you get out of the cellar? Your mother?”

“No, she couldn’t get past the guards, and thought it would be better if she rode to Annreth and brought my father back. I managed to scrape the ropes off eventually, and explored the cellar in the dark until I found a window above a shelf I could climb onto. I clawed the window open.” She frowned. “You know, it’s strange...I thought of that memory, that desperation, with the rift I had to reopen on the Temple mount.”

Solas raised his eyebrows. “You hadn’t mentioned that.”

Evelyn lifted her left palm. The light was quiet, not even a small glow. “I hadn’t thought about it until now. Before, I’d felt for it almost instinctively, the rift...as though the mark were sort of just doing its own thing and I happened to be attached. But that…”

He took her hand, running a thoughtful thumb along the scar. As with previous times, his touch was soothing, not exciting. Though he was handsome, certainly, downright beautiful from certain angles, there was something...something almost otherworldly about Solas. He carried himself apart from everyone else, and it was enough distance that she’d never really thought about him in a physical sense. Much like Varric, if she were honest. 

Like most people in her life, if she were really very honest with herself. She too, tended to keep her distance. But the touch was nice. It let her know for a moment that she wasn’t alone in bearing the burden of this foreign magic. 

“The magic has responded to your emotions,” he theorized. “That is...fascinating and utterly impossible. Or so I’d have thought. Are you certain you don’t have any elven blood? It is said there's magic dormant in most elves. It's why Tevinter prized its elven slaves for blood magic.”

It was her turn to wince. "That's terrible. But yes, I'm sure. Fairly sure, anyway. The Trevelyans keep very detailed records. Unless it’s something someone covered up back in the days of the old Imperium - which I suppose isn’t too unlikely. But I imagine any traces that would have left were long bred out.”

“I agree.” He released her hand. “How very remarkable you are, Herald.”

“I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t call me that.”

“You agreed. I said no such thing.” He stood and extended a hand to help her rise. “Come, my friend, you need rest before whatever chaos the morrow brings.”

She took it and let him pull her to her feet with that wiry strength of his. She squeezed his fingers briefly before letting go. “Thank you, Solas. I’ve...I’ve never told anyone but my parents what happened to me back then. Not even the rest of the council knows.”

“I will keep it in confidence, I assure you. It has no bearing on the here and now except for your own mind. Do you dream of it often?”

“No, thankfully. Only in times of great stress.”

He gave her a look that said he knew full well this was a time full of great stress. “Allow me to tell you a story of my travels before you fall asleep, my friend. That may help guide you to more restful places in the Fade.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers as they walked back to the campfire. “Thank you, Solas. I don’t know what I did to deserve your friendship, but it’s a gift I’m grateful for.”

She couldn’t place the expression on his face but he studied hers with something close to confusion. “I...thank you. Lethallan,” he added almost as an afterthought. She had the feeling he did not bestow such a title on many outside of the elves.

Evelyn felt a little more at peace in her own skin as she sat down to the bowl of rabbit stew Cassandra handed her. For the moment, at least, things were beginning to feel...well, a little less horrible. For now.

She’d see what the morning brought them.

  
  



	6. The Ass-End of Ferelden

It was utter chaos. 

They’d been able to hear the fighting before they entered the valley, and the entire party traded uneasy looks, Cassandra included. “Getting in the middle of this is gonna be bad,” Varric muttered. 

“We must see if we can stop it without violence,” Solas agreed.

Evelyn looked at Cassandra and met her grim expression. “I don’t know how feasible that is, but we’ll try.”

Solas silently agreed with her assessment, judging by the size of the backup knife he tucked into his belt. 

Cassandra glanced at the apostate. “Solas, have you ever been Silenced?”

He frowned. “No, but I understand it’s not pleasant.”

“I have heard it described as akin to being hit with an invisible sledgehammer,” Cassandra said. “I can focus mine so you won’t get caught in it, but be wary. Most of the Order’s been called back to Val Royeaux so those left out here fighting are likely to either be largely untrained or unhinged.”

Varric shifted Bianca. “I’ll watch your back, Chuckles.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Solas acknowledged. “I will try talking with the mages, but I wasn’t part of the rebellion, and I’m not certain they’ll listen to me. As I understand from your scout’s report, Seeker, the rebel enclave is holed up in Redcliffe and disavowing any mages left out here fighting.”

“Indeed,” Cassandra said. She cast a glance at Varric. “That could mean blood mages or worse, if they’re mages that haven’t faced a Harrowing.”

Varric winced. “Abominations. Oh, good. My favorite. Chuckles, Stabby, either of you ever seen one?”

Evelyn snorted over the nickname. He’d been mulling over two or three, she knew, but ‘Stabby’? Well. It was accurate, at least. “No. Can I kill it?”

He considered her question. “You? Probably.”

“Then let’s go.”

Evelyn had never seen magic in a fight, not like this. Fire, lightning, and projectiles of ice were flying everywhere, the ground littered with glyph mines. Solas and a few of the loyalist mages that had stuck around Haven (that weren’t healers) had given her an impression of tight control and a sort of elegance to including magic in fighting. It needed a hyper awareness of one’s surroundings and a razor-sharp reaction time. The very few mages who agreed to spar with her for training had informed her it was not a common path. Not only did it require Templar approval for a mage to practice, but it was incredibly difficult to do. 

Unless, apparently, you were Solas, who made everything with magic look as natural as breathing. Where Cassandra wasted no ceremony on striking with a Templar’s magical negation, Solas’s magic would tear through an enemy’s spell, dismantling it and stunning the caster as effectively as being Silenced would. The two of them working in concert were nigh unstoppable. Evelyn quickly found herself on cleanup duty with Varric. 

At least, she was in the background until one of the Templars snuck up on them and managed to smack his power into Solas. The elf stumbled, gasping, hitting the rocky ground knees first and barely managing to stay conscious. Cassandra couldn’t get to him in time, so Evelyn sent up a quick prayer to whomever might be listening, and let fly with a boot knife. The shorter blade had the better chance of not bouncing off the armor. 

It caught the Templar in the neck just as he raised his sword for a killing blow. The armor was thankfully crafted to deflect spellwork, not steel. He toppled backward with a gurgle and spray of blood that drenched the elf apostate, who hissed and staggered back to his feet. Evelyn made it to his side in enough time to shove him out of the way of a ricocheting fire spell. 

Somehow they made it through the fight relatively unscathed and when their reinforcements arrived and established a solid perimeter, they managed to drive away any remnants of violence from the immediate area. “Maker’s _eyeballs_ that was bad,” she said, leaning against a boulder near Varric to catch her breath.

“You’re bleeding,” he helpfully pointed out.

“You too."

"You seen Chuckles? Looks like a nightmare.”

Evelyn winced. “Yeah, he took a hard hit. How’s Bianca?”

“Smooth as ever, and I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“I thought I just did.”

She stumbled her way to the makeshift infirmary the scouts were setting up in an abandoned farmhouse. Scout Harding was glancing nervously at a few of her fellow scouts as they draped canvas across the roof and hammered it in place. She was so caught up in yelling at them to watch their footing that she didn’t notice Evelyn limping past her at first. “Herald! You’re hurt!”

Evelyn waved the kind dwarf off. “I’ll be fine, it’s just a cut on the arm and a shield bashed into my leg. Business as usual.”

And a fireball that had nearly taken her out aimed right at her chest. If she’d not dropped to the ground at the last second, she’d be the Roasted Herald of Andraste. Once inside, she also waved off the healer and told the woman to focus on Solas and another scout who’d taken a deep cut to his leg. 

She dug out her own saddlepack and dipped into the healer’s supplies to paste on salve to her cuts and wrap them. The leg was more of an issue, but she could brace her knee until the healer had recovered enough to set it properly. 

Solas was awake, and soon enough recovered so he could take over his own healing. He instructed the healer to see to the scout in a low voice, and Evelyn eased herself down on the end of his cot. They were bringing in a few more wounded who would need the beds more. Solas shifted to make room for her. “I owe you my gratitude, and my life, Lethallan.”

Evelyn grimaced as she shifted her leg into a more comfortable position. “Makes us even, then, Solas.”

He was quiet, and she glanced over to see that he was staring at his hands with a deeply troubled expression on his face. “I suppose in a manner it does,” he conceded.

“We’re all dying, Solas,” she said, closing her eyes and bracing her back against a bookcase so she could face him. “Some of us faster than others, but everyone gets there in the end. We all have that in common, at least. What matters is what we do with the time we have. I didn’t ask for this, for any of it. But if we got to ask for everything we wanted in life and never had to deal with any consequences, would that be a life truly worth living? Growing and learning from our mistakes, making decisions on how we act in the face of any adversity, whether it’s a rusted nail accidentally stepped on or a giant menacing hole in the sky that spews demons...it doesn’t matter what the challenge is. It matters how we rise to it. 

“For all our fear of death, we are defined by it, are we not? I don’t know when my time will come or whether it will be from this,” she paused and lifted her left hand, “or from a blade in battle or old age. But it will come when it comes. From the day we are born, our time is borrowed. You kept it from coming while I slept at Haven, and for that I’m thankful. Take the gratitude, Solas, you’ve earned it.”

He said nothing. She let him sit with her words and kept her eyes closed, feeling herself drift off a little into the Fade. Whether he would agree with them or not didn’t really matter in the end. She couldn’t control his thoughts or how he felt about things, but she hoped it reassured him at least a little. The team needed to be whole in mind as well as body if they were going to survive this little jaunt into chaos. 

And there was probably worse headed their way. This was only the beginning. 

“Are you afraid of death, Evelyn?”

“Not mine, no.”

“I see,” he mused in a hoarse whisper. “You fear losing what you have left.”

She considered it. If she were less exhausted, she might not have been able to look at it so dispassionately as she turned it over in her mind. “No,” she said at last. “As I said, we all die. No one gets to pick when. The thought...well, it hurts of course. I don’t want to lose the family I still have and love, but everyone does eventually. What I fear is...being the cause of it. Getting others killed when I could have prevented it. When I should have been able to save them.”

“You could not have saved your cousin.”

“Fears aren’t rational things, Solas. Do you?” She opened one eye at him. He was still not looking at her, his face a mask of contained misery. “Fear death?”

He was quiet for so long she figured he didn’t want to answer. Finally, he released a long sigh. “I don’t know. I fear...dying, perhaps. Alone. Or living, equally alone. I fear what happens if I do nothing.”

She offered him sympathetic half-smile. “Those are rational fears, I think. Or at least understandable. No fear is really rational.” She extended her left hand toward him, the one with the mark, though it was thankfully silent for the time being. “For at least a little while, we none of us are alone in this.”

He took her hand and smiled. “For a little while, at least. Rest, Lethallan. We’ll see your leg righted soon enough.”

Solas did not have to tell her twice, and she nodded off into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

…

It was late, but Cullen rarely kept normal hours any longer. Neither did Leliana or Josephine, he’d noticed. Especially without Cassandra to harangue them all into getting enough sleep or chastising Leliana for forgetting to eat. 

Once was the number of times he’d had to be sick on her when she tried to shove food down his throat for her to back off that tactic with him. He was grateful that Cassandra cared, but her caring could be a little...aggressive. Like everything else she did. 

The Chantry was quiet, and while he no longer found it as soothing as he once had, his only other option for peace was the dock across the frozen lake. It was a clear night, and while he could handle the cold, it was the menacing light of the breach that drove him indoors. 

He’d taken over a small corner of the main Chantry hall, preferring the openness to the more claustrophobic Mother’s quarters they’d set up a war table in. At this hour, he could relax into the chair a little and prop his feet up on the writing desk in a casual position he’d never adopt in front of his soldiers. 

The reports from the team in the Hinterlands was troubling to say the least, but he was impressed at everything they were accomplishing. Cassandra’s matter-of-fact reporting even sounded impressed at how hard their Herald was working. While recovering from injuries, she’d scouted supplies and gone hunting on horseback for the refugees at the Crossroads camp. With the recruits flocking to the Inquisition banner there, he’d been able to send a few more requisition teams out with archers to keep the refugees fed throughout the winter while they sourced supplies for Haven. 

He now sat with an ambitiously executed plan in front of him all devised by Trevelyan in order to get him cavalry-worthy mounts. Watchtowers for Dennet’s land and the farms bordering it where refugees were settling, in return for horses and elfroot and potatoes and mineral rights to the adjacent hills. She’d gone ahead and sourced quarries and now presented a plan to both Cullen and Josephine: putting refugees to work in quarries co-owned between the Inquisition and Dennet. All profit would go at first to relief efforts (putting other refugees to work hunting, weaving, and farming), and then past a certain percentage as more towns bought the stone to begin repairs Dennet would buy the Inquisition out and handle profits as he saw fit. But with the watchtowers funded and built, Dennet would be able to supply not only his horses, but mounts from other recommended breeders alongside his own expertise and care. 

The plan was brilliant. He rubbed his chin and tried to consider any downsides. There were none that he could see, so he noted his approval as conditional on a last say from Josephine, who was to handle the Inquisition’s coffers. 

There was a small note attached to the report, in Varric’s hand: _Wish we’d thought of something like that in Kirkwall._

Well, there were a lot of things Cullen wished he’d thought of in Kirkwall. Better handling the Ferelden refugee crisis was among them, but he’d been trying to keep the Templars out of city politics and focused only on the Circle. That had been one of many losing battles for him against Knight-Commander Meredith. 

If he’d kept his own eyes better focused on the Circle, he might have seen the truth of what was happening underneath his nose. For so long, he’d been absorbed in himself, in survival and handling what he thought the threat to be, that he’d missed the true danger until it was nearly too late. 

Well, too late to do anything other than save the life of someone who had time and again tried only to help him, who had only ever asked of him one thing: to keep her sister safe. He’d failed that, too. Bethany’s survival was the result of her own fortitude, not his protection. 

_You remind me of my brother, Knight-Captain. We were taught to fear them, for my father’s sake, and for Bethany’s, but...I think Carver would have been happy as a Templar. It would have given him purpose, and something to try and change from within. He’d have loved that, like Bethany’s taken to the Circle._

_Hawke, if you get morose on me, I’m not going to come drinking with you anymore._

_Blooming Rose, then? That’ll cheer me up._

_Maker, no. They’d shut the door in my face and Meredith would have my hide as her new fireside rug. Besides, your elf friend terrifies me and if I let you go trotting off to the brothel, I’m fairly certain he might snap my neck._

_Fenris...well. I can think of better uses for all three of us than violence. Are you ever out of that armor, Golden Boy, even when you’re not wearing it?_

_And we’re done for the evening. You get handsy after your eighth pint, apparently. Varric!_

_Rutherford, you are no fun._

_I get that a lot. Templars aren’t meant to be fun. Also, for the record, perhaps coming on to someone right after comparing them to your brother isn’t the best tactic. Good night, Hawke, and stop pouting. Varric, have fun getting her home, I’m tapping out for the evening._

_I’ll let her crash here and then make up embarrassing stories in the morning. Thanks, Curly._

Cullen hadn’t told Cassandra that story, either. The Seeker didn’t need to know everything, particularly that the Champion of Kirkwall had tried repeatedly to crawl into his lap when drunk. If she’d tried it sober, he might not have said no. 

He probably would have, though. She’d still compared him to a brother, and he’d been so wrapped up in everything happening at the Circle, he wouldn’t have noticed. Besides, he’d liked Hawke, but not enough to pursue her and it wouldn’t have been anything more than a slight footnote in her complicated and rather expansive love life. 

And Fenris would have killed him, so all in all he felt he came out ahead of that situation. 

It had just been...a really long time. Likely to be longer, still, if he were honest. He had no time or interest to pursue a dalliance, and he really, really did not need rumors flying around about him. It would be difficult to allow any woman to stay the night, after all, not with how bad his nightmares were. And the sickness was so unpredictable…

He’d be fine. He’d taken no vow of chastity, but many Templars did, and if they could survive, he could survive. It took no less strength of will and fortitude than giving up lyrium. 

To work, then. Cullen picked up the next report. 

…

“I FUCKING HATE FERELDEN.”

The stench of the bear made Evelyn feel ill, and she sagged down to her knees. “Maferath’s hairy balls,” she swore. “How the...how…”

Even Solas was disheveled and irritated, and he’d been unflappable since his recovery. They’d faced down demon-possessed wolves, Fade rifts, rogue Templar encampments, apostate mages gone mad, to say nothing of bandits and that Carta outfit, but this...this might be the final straw for all of them. 

Varric was still cursing and throwing the closest thing she’d seen to a tantrum out of anyone on this trip, which was impressive considering the dangers. But a bear attack in the middle of the night on their campsite was the outside of enough.

Cassandra snapped her head up from trying to find her boots. “Varric! Look out!”

“WHAT. WHAT COULD POSSIBLY HAP-fuck.” Evelyn had seen the danger and launched herself at the dwarf, tackling him down the hill and away from the second bear that had reared up on its hind legs.

Solas yelled something undoubtedly profane in Elvehn and threw all of his might behind an ice spell, which froze the beast in place. Cassandra shattered it with one sword blow. 

There was already a fireball in his hand hurtling toward a pack of wild and snarling Mabari that had crept up in the noise. “I,” he grumbled, “am going. To burn. Hafter’s Woods. To the bare, forsaken earth it rests on.”

Evelyn stood and scanned the surroundings. “Any more fun wildlife? Maybe this wasn’t such a great spot to camp.”

All three of her companions glared at her. “You said you’d started to like camping!” she argued at Varric.

He picked himself up off the ground, stumbling around in the dark to find his crossbow. “That was when there was fresh bacon and you found those wild chicken eggs and we still had rum.”

Cassandra gave up trying to find her boots in the chaos that was their camp. “You have put off heading back to Haven long enough, Evelyn. We need to talk to the others about what Mother Giselle suggested.”

“I’m not putting it off!” she protested. “I’m out here, trying to help all of us…”

No one even bothered responding. Varric shook dirt and what was possibly bits of still-frozen bear off his coat, which he retrieved from under his collapsed tent. Solas was busy salvaging poles that were undamaged and resurrecting a tent for them to spend the rest of the night in. They’d have to sleep close, but after that absurdity, she doubted anyone cared. 

Cassandra handed her a knife and they got to work on the first bear’s carcass, skinning it and salvaging anything useable. Freezing the meat with magic wouldn’t last, so she’d salt it and start it curing in the morning. By the time they were done, Solas had a tent erected and was setting much stronger wards along the perimeter, along with a few fire glyph mines. 

They burned the rest of the wildlife remnants, with Solas pouring more magic into it than he normally would in order to burn the flames hotter and get it done more quickly. Without a word, he turned and stumbled off to sleep when it was done. Varric paused before he followed. “Look, Stabby...no one’s saying you’re not helping, but...we’ve done enough for now.” 

Evelyn followed Cassandra to the stream nearby where they washed their hands of gore. The Seeker sighed. “I know it’s dangerous to go to Val Royeaux, but I will go with you and make sure you are not arrested.”

Evelyn frowned. “It’s not...it’s not that, Cass.”

“Then what is it?”

She sat down on a nearby boulder. “You know I’m not comfortable being thought of as the Herald of Andraste. I was willing to play the part because it’s useful. Right now we’re the only people that seem to care about what happened, why, and how it can be fixed, and the only people actively intent on doing something about it all. This idea of a Herald gives a sort of protective shield in a way. But…”

Cassandra sat down beside her. “You do not believe it.”

“How can I?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you do. You wanted to stick a sword through me when you first saw me.”

“I was angry. I do not always...I can react too quickly, sometimes. A Seeker must follow the truth, but it can be a single-minded pursuit and it’s easy to blind yourself to other things around you. As to what I believe,” she added, pausing in thought, “I don’t know what to believe, to be honest. I want to believe you were sent to us to help. I want to believe there are reasons behind everything that happens in our lives. I believe in the Maker, and that makes it difficult to accept events as mere coincidence. A great evil occurred, but we have been given a weapon to combat it.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to start singing the Canticle of Benedictions, are you?”

“Only if you keep deflecting truth with humor. I get enough of that from Varric.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Cassandra waiting but not relenting. “Fine,” Evelyn grumbled at last, standing up. “If I go to Val Royeaux, it’s more than just pretending. It’s more than not contradicting someone when they assume I’m some blessed messenger. It’s more than just telling myself that ‘Herald’ is just a title, just a word. It’s declaring it outright. I can’t declare something I don’t remember, something I don’t believe.”

“Maybe...maybe it’s not about what you believe, Evelyn. Maybe it’s about what you want.”

“I want justice. I want vengeance.”

“Vengeance doesn’t stop to hunt rams for starving refugees. Vengeance does not build watchtowers to protect local farms and put displaced people back to work in a way that sustains them and helps them rebuild their lives. And vengeance does not look at the big picture. You do. You are more than that. You may not admit it to yourself, but you are. And you want more.”

“Someone has to do those things, Cassandra. It’s not about wanting.”

“But no one has,” she pointed out, “no one but us. Would I have done so, had you not asked the refugees about surviving the winter? I did not drag a druffalo out of a canyon so a farmer could earn an extra coin to help offset the labor he lost to our recruiting. I did not even see the problem, much less think of solving it. But you did. So don’t tell me you only want vengeance.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

Cassandra yawned and headed back to the tent. “Perhaps you should think that over on our way back to Haven.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know it's bad when both Varric and Solas lose their shit and Solas threatens to burn things down. With his love of the Fade, I feel like Solas would be an asshole if woken up prematurely. It's nice to get a little more personality to him than constantly sad egg, particularly given the start of the chapter where he is VERY SAD EGG.
> 
> That last scene is actually inspired by the time I accidentally kited a bear, and then two other bears showed up along with a pack of wild Mabari that spawned on their heels. The Hinterlands, y'all. Fuck Hafter's Woods. 
> 
> I just imagined Varric recovering and yelling 'ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME'.


	7. Who Names These Things?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find myself skipping over more of the game than I'd originally planned, but look, we all know what happens in those scenes. I like concentrating on Evelyn's developing bonds with her companions and on the scenes where Cullen begins to really appreciate her as a fighter and tactician. I feel like that's important for these two in this story, to build that rapport leading up to the fall of Haven, where he has to put all of his trust in one person to buy them time to survive.

“It’s a terrible idea,” Cullen argued. 

“I don’t disagree with you,” Evelyn pointed out, leaning wearily against the wooden table with her hip, arms folded across her chest. “I just don’t see many other options.”

“Can we invite them here instead?” he asked, turning to Leliana and Josephine. Leliana gave him a pointedly frustrated look, but before she could snap at him, Evelyn pushed off the table. 

“All right, enough. Sometimes our only options are bad ones. I’ll go, but Leliana’s people will scout and hold open an escape route if Cassandra and I need. It’s best if Solas and Varric stay here, honestly, and it’s just the two of us. Or at least if Solas stays here and Varric stays as out of sight as a bare-chested ginger dwarf with a giant crossbow can get.”

Cassandra snorted. “You’d be surprised.”

Leliana looked as though she wanted to argue further, but Jospehine had her by one arm and Cassandra took the other, blessedly. Evelyn’s patience with the spymaster was thin on the best of days. Subterfuge wasn’t her preferred way of handling...well. Anything, if she were honest. Too much like the Teyrn.

“Giving us orders, now, Trevelyan?” the Commander growled. 

She didn’t bother replying, merely raised an eyebrow and waited until he apologized, which he did moments after. She watched him move stiffly around the war table and rub wearily at the back of his neck. “Ice,” she told him. “Should be easy to find here.”

He blinked at her. “Sorry?”

“Take a good sized chunk of ice, roll it in a cloth, and tie it around your neck. With the cold resting on the back of your neck, it can help with nausea and in general lessen pain.” Evelyn shrugged slightly. “My cousin used to get terrible headaches. She’d have to shut herself in a dark room for hours until they passed. Ice always helped, though, and mint and ginger tea. I can ask Adan to mix some up if you like.”

He gave her a confused half-smile. “I just nearly bit your head off and you’re giving me headache advice? I’ll take it over the punch that’s a little more deserved.”

She smiled back. “I don’t kick people when they’re down, Cullen. I’ll take it out on you in the training ring when you feel better.”

He sighed, and let himself slouch just a bit, leaning back against the table beside her. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Yes.”

“We don’t have enough influence or presence in Val Royeaux to get you out if things go sideways.”

“That’s what spies are for, I’m told.” 

He glanced at her. “Even Andraste had spies, Herald. Don’t write Leliana off just yet. She’s far more than she seems. Underneath that emotionless exterior is a woman who has seen far too much grief and pain in her life. It’s affected her faith, and without her faith, she’s terrified of being left rudderless.”

Evelyn was silent for a moment. “What about you, Commander?”

“What about me?”

“Is that not how you feel? Templars don’t leave the Order, yet you did. You came from Kirkwall, and Ferelden Tower before it. Those were not easy postings, to put it lightly. How damaged is your own faith to drive you into the arms of a heretical movement the Chantry’s denounced?”

“I was recruited by Justinia’s Right Hand.”

“But you stayed after Justinia’s death. I’ve heard you speak of the Chantry, Cullen. Your bitterness is deserved. I merely worry it will consume you.” She sighed. “I fear the same for Leliana. It’s probably baseless, I know. I’m aware none of us have known each other for long, or at least, I haven’t known the lot of you, nor you me.”

“No, I…” He sighed. “Your fears are justified, my lady. I am bitter, and perhaps there are more similarities between Leliana and myself than I would care to admit. Yet...I find hope in purpose.”

“You can call me ‘Evelyn’ outside of the training ring, Cullen, it won’t actually kill you.” 

He snorted. “You have met Lady Montilyet, no?”

Evelyn pushed off the table. “Indeed, and now I need to see her about a wardrobe. I’m not walking into the Orlesian capital in worn riding leathers.”

The Commander gave a mock shudder. “And that is my cue to go see about an escort. We can at least have a small encampment ensconced in some town outside the city. That much will be expected, given the state of the civil war.” 

“See to your headache first. Not that I can give you an order. Merely a strong suggestion.”

He gave her an exaggerated salute. “My lady.”

If he wasn’t in obvious pain, she’d have let the door slam on her way out just to irritated him. 

…

  
  


They managed to stick to a road that was largely untroubled by the Orlesian conflict. Evelyn had to admit, Val Royeaux was indeed a stunning city. Spires of white and blue, wrought iron and intricately painted tile. Yet for all of it, she found that she much preferred the simple honesty of Ferelden architecture. 

The Orlesian appreciation for beauty was one thing; but it was quite another to revere the beauty itself above the faith and purpose it was supposed to serve. Everything in Orlais was a mask, after all. She had pointedly forgone one, but was more than able to wear one in body language and expression, if needed. 

After Josephine had declared that they would need to delay a month if they wanted to arrive in uniform, Evelyn had raided the wardrobes of Leliana, Cassandra, and Josephine herself to find something suitable to address the clerics in. Luckily, she’d pieced together something satisfactory.

A simple, unassuming blue wool tunic, well-cut and trimmed in silverite, had come from Cassandra, who normally would have worn it beneath a breastplate. It was Nevarran in design, and the bias cut of the fabric hugged and emphasized Evelyn’s curves as it would Cassandra’s. They were luckily largely the same height and build. Cassandra had an inch or so of height on her, so Leliana had given Evelyn a pair of dove-gray trousers and leather boots with purely decorative silverite knee-guards and greaves. 

From Josephine came a complicated cloak of black velvet, lined in silk. It draped across her midsection, leaving her arms free to access any one of the six hidden knives she’d fit into the folds of cloth and leather about her body. She’d presented the collection for approval from the rest of the council, and Cullen had eyed her critically before claiming it needed something else, something that subtly claimed her as the Herald. 

Josephine had teased him relentlessly, but he was right, of course, when he argued that symbols have as much power as words or steel. “If you can win the battle before blades are even drawn, so much the better,” were his exact words on it. 

Which was why a thin, delicate band of silverite now graced her head. Not at the angle of a crown, and it could be mistaken for simple hair adornment. But when the sunlight caught it just so, it was a halo of pure fire that lit up her auburn locks. 

Cassandra had opted for pure black beneath her Seeker breastplate, which was polished and re-painted for the occasion. A thick sash of red silk sat beneath her sword belt as the only relief from the starkness of her presence. No one could possibly underestimate the deadly determination of the Lady Seeker, and Evelyn had to admit, she felt a lot better with Cassandra firmly on her side. 

They made their way to the market square, where they were to meet with a representative of the Chantry clerics. As soon as they’d passed the iron gates, Evelyn sighed softly. Of course things were not going to go smoothly. She exchanged a look with Cassandra as the other woman noticed the raised wooden platform and the shouting Reverend Mother. 

The crowd turned to face Evelyn with whispers, parting to admit her as she strode forward, head held high. The Mother ranted at her for a solid minute before falling silent. Evelyn waited, letting the silence sit and gain weight. 

“That is quite enough grandstanding,” she drawled. “If you’re finished for now, we have real issues to address, and real enemies to face that are larger than your political ambitions.”

The gasps and hisses from the crowd around her were equal parts shocked and approving. Yet any advantage she might have gained was lost the moment heavily armed footsteps reached the ears of the crowd and as one they turned.    


A band of Templars, led by a man in the same Seeker’s armor as Cassandra, strode toward the platform. Even Evelyn was taken aback by the swift and brutal treatment of the Chantry clerics as one Templar cuffed the Reverend Mother on the back of the head. The older woman crumbled under the gauntleted blow. 

“Stop!” Evelyn cried out, one hand raised and the other reaching for the dagger inside the cloak’s collar. 

“Lord Seeker!” Cassandra shouted at the same time. “What is the meaning of this?” 

The pair of them argued back and forth, with the Lord Seeker accusing Cassandra of betraying their order. Evelyn used the distraction to look around at all the Templars. It had been a long shot, in her estimation, of getting them to work with the Inquisition, but they’d had more than a few jump ship when word of Cullen’s leadership had gotten around. 

She locked eyes with one very troubled young man with clear eyes set in a handsome and dark-skinned face. “It doesn’t have to be this way!” she called. “There are other paths to peace instead of this madness. Join us as many of your brothers and sisters have! We are not against your faith and your mission; we can find a new direction to fulfill it together. One of your own leads our forces, the former Knight-Captain Rutherford -”

“That traitor,” the Lord Seeker spat, “is even less worthy than you to address us. He is nothing, and you, the Inquisition, are less than nothing.” 

They all turned to leave together, but she caught a few of them exchanging worried looks and glancing back at them. Cassandra stood staring at the empty space they’d left long after they’d retreated. Evelyn darted up to the platform and the huddle of Chantry clerics. They’d sent for a healer, but Evelyn looked the Reverend Mother over anyway, and used her own clean handkerchief to help staunch the bleeding on the back of her head. “It’s not as bad as it seems,” she told the women gathered. “Head wounds always bleed the worst, but this is largely superficial. A good healer should be able to reduce the swelling so she’s not in danger of more than a bad headache.”

The healer arrived in short order and Evelyn handed the cleric over. She caught herself before she could wipe the blood off her hand on Josephine’s expensive cloak. A merchant in a nearby stall waived her over to a basin of water, which she thanked her profusely for. By the time Cassandra had mastered her obviously conflicted emotions, the merchant had convinced herself to join the Inquisition and was busy packing up her stall. 

Cassandra grimaced. “I knew they were angry, but this…”

“How well do you know Lord Seeker Lucius?”

“Not as well as others, but he’d always seemed more level-headed and even-tempered than his predecessor. There was a time I wouldn’t have thought he would follow down the same narrow-minded path of violence, but…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “There were not many of my fellow Seekers in that crowd. I am worried for them, and us,” she added as an afterthought. 

Evelyn chewed the inside of her lip in thought. “Well, if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that you Seekers are one tough lot. We should find them, though, and see if they’re with the rest of the Order or not.” Her eyes scanned the dissipating crowd of nobles. “Also, let’s send a raven and get Josephine on noble-soothing duty. I think we’ll be able to pull some alliances out of this fairly quickly, but I think she’s the only one patient enough to manage it.”

Whatever Cassandra was going to say in response was cut off by the unceremonious arrival of a message via arrow. Evelyn blinked, then bent down to pick it up. “Well, well,” she murmured, reading it. “This trip might be useful after all.”

…

“She’s a criminal,” Cassandra pointed out for the eighth time as they sighted Haven on the horizon. 

“Do you think she’s pretending to be not all there?” Varric mused. “No one that nuts can shoot a bow like that.”

Evelyn snorted as they watched Sera talk sternly to her horse. “You don’t get to be Red Jenny without some serious wits and survival instincts. She’s an elf born and raised in one of the worst alienages in Thedas. I knew the brothers in Starkhaven. Would you believe me if I told you they were dwarves?”

“She’s…” Cassandra started again, but Evelyn cut her off. 

“So am I, Cass. I’ve been a smuggler, a thief, a mercenary just a hair’s edge away from a murderer. The world isn’t black and white, it’s mostly gray. Sometimes it’s red. Besides,” she paused to wave down the advance guard and blow the signal on her horn, “we’re all criminals now. What’s one more?”

She nudged her horse forward, alongside the elf girl’s, and noted her tight expression. “Whatsit, Hairy?” Sera asked, making an attempt to smile. 

“You could have ridden with me if you’re not comfortable with horses, you know. Or the supply wagon.” 

“Didn’t know, did I? Never been on one.”

Evelyn blinked. “And this comes as naturally to you as archery?”

Sera shrugged uncomfortably. “Dunno. I just watched you lot.”

Evelyn grinned. “So. Starkhaven…”

…

After another round of arguing over whom to approach for help with the Breach, Evelyn gave up and went in search of a hot bath. The bath house was regrettably crowded, so she took her chances with a hip bath and a cauldron over her fire. It served well enough, and she was seated on a pile of furs before the hearth drying her hair when a knock sounded at the door. 

She’d expected Solas to seek her out at some point, but hadn’t expected him to have Varric, a deck of cards, and a large bottle of Antivan brandy in tow. From his expression, neither had Solas. She grinned. 

“Your mercenary arrived today,” Solas announced, taking a seat on the floor beside her. He held his palm out and she dutifully placed her marked hand in it for his examination. He hummed satisfactorily to himself as he investigated the magic with a soft layer of his own. It tingled, like the feeling of catching on spider silk. “I find him absolutely fascinating for a Qunari.” 

“The Iron Bull? Do make sure you include the article, he likes it.” 

“He’s the most un-Qunari Qunari I’ve ever met,” Varric said, claiming the wooden desk chair. 

“Says the most un-dwarf dwarf,” Solas pointed out. 

Varric took a swig of brandy. “I have dwarf moments.”

“Bullshit,” Evelyn told him, laughing. “You hate caves, love the sunlight, prefer wood and plaster to stone, and never flaunt your money. Also,  _ you shave your face _ .”

Solas took the bottle of brandy Varric offered him and sniffed at it before taking a small sip. “A beard would detract attention from his chest hair.”

Varric tugged the bottle away. “Was that a joke, Chuckles?”

“Perhaps I felt it necessary to live up to the nickname, Master Tethras.”

Evelyn reached for the leather pouch on her bedside table and took out a copper, flipping it up in the air and catching it with an expert flourish. “You gonna mouth off, Varric, or deal the cards?”

Solas shifted as Varric dealt out their hands. “Tell me about this Red Jenny,” he asked Evelyn. “I met her briefly earlier. She’s...unique.”

Evelyn yawned but took a drink of brandy anyway. “Speaking of people who are completely outside of stereotypes of their own races.”

“Yes,” Solas said with a small lift of his mouth, though the effort seemed more resigned than amused, “she is indeed the least elfy elf I’ve met so far. I’d consider you more one of the People than she, Lethallan.”

“I’m honored, Solas, that you think that highly of me,” she told him. She stretched her legs out and scooted until her back was braced against her bed. “I think from our own conversation we’ve maybe seen how little use it is to try and fit people into neat boxes with nice little labels. Afterall, I’m Lady Evelyn Rosarion Marilyn Trevelyan, heir to the Teyrn of Ostwick. By that title alone, I should be sitting in a weaving circle chatting about my marriage prospects. You’re an elf apostate from some northern village that should be either encamped with the rebels at Redcliffe or off with the Loyalists. Varric should have some nice little wife from a good Merchant Guild family and a beard to his knees.”

He frowned slightly in thought. “I merely wonder what has happened in her young life to make her so vehemently opposed to any remnant of our culture. Though, in truth, I consider myself to have little in common with most other elves I’ve met.”

“I don’t know, Solas,” she said. “Perhaps you can change her mind?”

“I think he lacks the necessary equipment,” Varric drawled. “Particularly up top, judging by the drool she had to wipe off her chin when she met Flissa.”

Solas gave him a look that said he knew full well when he was being baited. “If you’re looking for fodder for your next terrible romance serial, my friend, I am not it.” 

“Call,” Evelyn said, laying her hand out. Varric smuggly scooted the pile of coppers closer to the chair with his toe. She handed him the brandy and he took a full swig. “Besides, Solas doesn’t have half the women sighing over him that Varric does. Or half the men,” she added. 

“No one sighs over me, Stabs.”

“You’re right; they swoon.” 

Even Solas laughed at that, and they settled down to play some serious Wicked Grace. Evelyn was grateful for the distraction; she was not looking forward to the conversation she’d need to have on the morrow about going to Redcliffe.

…

  
  


In the end, the decision was stalled for a little while, giving Evelyn a reprieve from negotiating a solution amongst the council. All things considered, however, she’d have preferred the argument over the news that had reached them.

She found her way to the makeshift war room with a basket of rolls in hand. Too often in these early morning meetings, she’d heard stomachs rumbling and been on the receiving end of tempers made short by hunger. Only the Commander was present, and he had a grim expression on his face. Well, she reflected, more grim than his normal grimness. 

Evelyn rounded the table, pressed a roll into one of his hands, and pulled the report he held from the other. She scanned it quickly and gave a low whistle. “Damn. Avvar?”

He met her look. “The message is written in my second’s hand. Rylen was a Knight-Captain in the Templar Order, and is a fierce warrior with a pragmatic mind. There are at least two other Templars in his group, and I’m not sure how long they’ve been kept captive, without lyrium.”

Evelyn frowned. “That sounds bad. Templars need regular doses of lyrium, don’t they? Max and Edmund always had some with them. Edmund used to get dizzy if he forgot a draught.”

“Some tolerate it better than others,” he replied, “but no, it is not pleasant.”

“The sooner we move out, the better, then. We can’t afford to lose seasoned fighters like these Templars, not with the bulk of your forces currently comprised of green recruits.”

He sighed. “You’re right, of course, but…”

She raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“I don’t like the idea of caving to this demand.” He eyed the fresh roll she’d pressed into his hand. “I don’t much care for the idea of making you, or anyone, into bait.” 

“Technically Captain Rylen’s the bait, I’m the bear.” She tapped her fingers on the table in thought, ignoring the Commander’s irritated snort. “Eat your roll.” 

“I thought you weren’t giving orders?”

“If you don’t, I will.” He held it out of her reach as she made a half-hearted swat for it, and took a bite. “Well, fine, it’s yours now.” 

“Spoken like a true only child,” he told her around a mouthful of bread. “My sister would’ve gone for it anyway.” He swallowed. “I have a small contingent en route to the Mire, and Scout Harding - that treasure of a dwarf Leliana found in the Hinterlands - has already established a forward camp.” 

“Harding will be there? Well, why didn’t you say sooner? The battle’s practically won.”

The Commander gave her a small smile. It was tight with worry, but it there was at least a glimmer of true amusement. Evelyn selected a sausage roll from the basket and pulled the map closer with her other hand. After a bite, she pondered, “Who names a place ‘The Fallow Mire’?”

Rutherford took a sip from the earthenware mug of cold tea that sat on the corner of the table. “Think that’s bad? There was a mine outside Kirkwall called ‘The Bone Pit’.”

She snorted. “That’s Kirkwall for you, half-assing it with the names. Ostwick had a legitimate ‘Pit of Despair’. Turns out it was haunted by a Despair demon the whole time. Took my father a week to feel his toes again after he went in at the Teyrn’s request. Apparently, they throw ice.”

He shook his head. “Free Marchers.”

Evelyn grinned. “Listen, we gave Thedas the Grand Tourney and cheese wheel racing, what more do you want from us?” She poked her head through the open doorway and waylaid a page with instructions to ask The Iron Bull to be ready with the Chargers by midday. “Make sure they pack for a swamp,” she added, and the page nodded. 

“You’ll need a mage, my dear,” came the cultured tones of Madame de Fer. “I understand your apostate friend is busy helping the apothecary. I would be willing to travel with you, if you’ll have me. I’d like to see this mark of yours in action.”

“The Fallow Mire is difficult terrain when there isn’t a plague present,” the Commander said from behind Evelyn. “I do not wish to underestimate you, Lady Vivienne, but I would like to ensure you’re aware of what you’re volunteering for.”

“My dear Commander, you are sweet, but I never expected my time here to be spa treatments and dress fittings, I assure you. I can handle myself.” 

Evelyn glanced over her shoulder and noted the skeptical look the Commander gave Lady Vivienne’s clothing before nodding his assent. “The Herald will need help. Our scouts are reporting some issues with undead in the area. A mage would be beneficial.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I would caution you about the thinness of the Veil in such an area but it can’t be worse than Haven.”

“I will ensure our company knows of any risks I might pose,” she told him. Evelyn had expecting bristling, but the enchanter was deadly serious. “I’ll start packing, my dear,” she added to Evelyn, and they both watched her stride away in confidence toward the Chantry doors. 

She glanced at the Commander and offered him a half-smile. “Penny for your thoughts. A whole silver if they’re naughty.”

He pretended not to hear the last part. “I was thinking,” he told her, “about how the most venomous serpents are usually the most beautiful to behold.” He met her gaze, and she wondered how she hadn’t really noticed the extraordinary color of his eyes before. It was a random thought, and she shoved it to the back of her mind. “Be careful with that one, Trevelyan. Her views are at times reassuringly traditional, but I fear too much of her influence would land us back where we started with the Circle. I don’t doubt her commitment to what’s best for mages, but I think perhaps it’s too tangled with what’s best for herself. I’ve known others like that, and it’s never ended well.”

Kirkwall again, she’d bet. She’d read Varric’s account of what happened, and gotten a clearer picture from him directly later. Both the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter of Kirkwall’s Circle had gone mad, in the end, both so entrenched in what they thought was right - with or without the red lyrium to tip the scales. Evelyn thought back to Bull’s words that morning as she’d caught up with him watching the recruits training. He’d said that Cullen had the look of a man who had been through hell and back, and still carried the weight of it on his shoulders. 

Evelyn nodded her agreement to the Commander. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.”

He looked relieved that she listened. “Good. Now, let’s talk about your assault. Split the last sausage roll? I find I’m hungrier than I expected this morning.”

  
  



	8. Hairy's Tits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of horniness starting to creep in here now that we're getting past the initial shock of everything.

The Fallow Mire was more than deserving of its name. Plague and death harassed the land, and Evelyn had finally resorted to threatening to send Sera packing back to Val Royeaux before the elf finally stopped complaining. The Iron Bull had done more than anyone to distract the girl, teasing her about turning her into a living hand grenade. 

“But think, Sera,” he pressed, “think of the  _ mayhem _ .”

“You only want to toss me ‘cause you’re a tosser. Get it?”

Evelyn exchanged a look of suffering with Vivienne, who smirked in response. She had explained her reasoning for including Sera in the Inquisition to the enchanter, and to her surprise, Vivienna had agreed with her. “That doesn’t mean I have to like her, darling,” she drawled. “May useful people and things are less than savory. Like a chamberpot.”

When Sera wasn’t whining, though, she had a sharp perception, and she was generally worth listening to. In another time, another place, she’d have received an education and upbringing that might have honed and shaped that mind of hers. As it was, she often lacked a frame for what she was trying to say, leading others to write her off. Evelyn was little glad that Cassandra and Leliana were too busy trying to track down where the Templar Order had holed up for the Seeker to have accompanied them. She had little patience for Sera.

Varric had shot Evelyn one murderous look and pointed to his recovering shoulder from the Hinterlands. He had not taken kindly to her pointing out that bandages were more effective worn  _ under _ clothing, but she took the hint that he was not on board for a trip to a place with either ‘fallow’ or ‘mire’ in the name. 

Solas had offered to join them, but Evelyn had insisted he stay in Haven. Though he seemed rested physically, there was something in his expression that signaled an exhaustion of mind, if nothing else. She’d asked him to look into the odd keystone fragments they’d stumbled across, and what magic might have been used to create the weird, creepy skulls that illuminated their locations. He needed something to keep him from staring up at the Breach with a frown on his face constantly. Besides, he and Vivienne didn’t get along in Haven, and there wasn’t enough brandy in Antiva for Evelyn to want to be on the road with both of them at once. 

She was eager to see what Bull and his Chargers could do, and liked the group almost instantly. They reminded her of the High Woods Hunters, her uncle’s mercenary group that she’d spent a good amount of her youth with. Bull was very much like Aidan, who was her father’s youngest brother, and the black sheep of the Trevelyan clan. ‘Delightfully disowned’ is how he liked to describe it. He was none the worse for it, after all: he loved his Dalish outcast wife, and their two children dearly. The other fighters under his command were much like extended family, and several of them had raised Jesper and Vess as much as Aidan and Mirana had. 

Evelyn missed her parents, of course, but she missed that ragtag bunch of misfits even more. She loved both her mother and father with equal dearness, but being home at Annreth was a reminder of the sort of peaceful, bucolic life she’d have had before the Darkspawn, before the cave and Katie’s death. How could she return to that when her sense of security and peace had never really repaired itself? She’d left safety in her uncle’s wine cellar. 

So her father had enlisted Aidan to take Evelyn under his wing. They would move around, which would keep her safe from assassins, and they would teach her how to fight. It was not perhaps an ideal childhood, but her childhood also died in that cellar, chained in the dark. Under Mirana’s patient guidance and Aidan’s swift but fair judgement, Evelyn became an adult, and a warrior. 

She returned to Annreth every so often, when one attempt or another on her life had failed and she’d bought some downtime with blood. She would slip on the role of young noble lady like an Orlesian mask, but never felt at home in it. It was always a costume. More often than not, however, she adopted the road and the mercenaries as her home and kin. Had she any siblings, the behavior might have branded her a pariah in polite Ostwick society, but with her cousins all in the Chantry, she was still the best bet at heir apparent after her father. So the society dames labeled her as ‘eccentric’.

Her father loved that label. His eccentric little falcon: fierce, deadly, and would happily take out an offending eye.

What an odd series of events her life was, to lead her to all this. She murmured as much to Bull as he trotted along side her, having spied one of the strange beacon towers ahead of them. “I think that’s always the way, boss,” he told her. “After all, anyone who sets out to become a hero usually ends up the villain.”

“Reading more of Varric’s works?”

“Damn me if that dwarf can’t write.” He hefted his axe. “Ah, smell those rotten intestines…”

Evelyn winced. “I’d rather not. Let’s make this fast. I want to get to that keep by sundown.”

Bull darted forward as Vivienne lit the veilfire torch and activated the spire’s magic. Sera’s arrows whizzed past her ears with dizzying speed, and Evelyn marveled again at the girl’s skill and accuracy. Even if she did make vomiting noises with every hit.

The mark on her left hand crackled with energy and her eyes soon enough sighted the controlling demon. Fear, this time. Ugh, she hated those.

She’d fought enough demons by now to have a least favorite type to fight. One of these days, she was going to wake up from all this and marvel at the absurdity of this dream. Maybe the Maker was a novelist, like Varric? 

She hoped she at least would get some better love scenes than he could write.

Maker’s breath, she had to be losing it a little if all this was starting to become second nature enough that she could think such ridiculous thoughts in the middle of a battle against demons and undead. It was all rapidly becoming second nature to her, though, as quickly as learning to fight - and kill - living, breathing men and women had been. 

The ground darkened and she leapt into a forward roll, dodging out of the way as the fear demon Fade-jumped right where she’d been standing. She struck quickly before it could readjust itself and decapitated it with a scissor strike from her two wickedly sharp longblades. Everite held an edge just beautifully, especially under Harritt’s hammer. She must remember to thank the Commander for the recommendation.

Vivienne delicately wiped her staff blade on a spare bit of cloth she kept on her belt for the purpose. “This rapidly grows tedious,” she sighed. “Bull, be a darling and ask a few of your men to collect some tissue samples from the undead. The most recently dead the better. If the Inquisition can find Healers worth their lyrium potions, they ought to be able to synthesize a treatment for the plague in this area. Ensure they clean their weapons, faces, and hands thoroughly, as well. We wouldn’t want to add to the undead numbers here, now would we?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Bull played along, bowing his head with sincere respect but a slight curl of his lips that told Evelyn that he rather enjoyed the role Vivienne had assigned him. A glint in the mage’s eyes spoke that she knew full well the large Qunari was not a subservient type by nature, especially to anyone outside the Qun. Vivienne’s advice was good, however, and if there was one thing Evelyn had picked up about the odd Qunari merc, it was that he recognized wisdom when he saw it. He also did love play-acting, and had changed his personality at nearly every tavern great room along the route. 

She heard Krem’s protests and laughed quietly to herself. The Tevinter soldier was of course Bull’s pick, the two men absolutely loving the chance to peck at each other like they’d been born brothers. “How are you holding up?” she asked Sera. The elf shuddered. “Damp, but you know. Looking forward to seeing our god up against the big ones, yeah? If it weren’t in this hole, might have sold tickets. No one wants to muck it out here, though. ‘Cept you and us nutters.”

“What odds was Varric offering against me?”

“He’d never bet against Andraste in any form, that one. He looks a rogue, but he’s a goody-two-shoes for all that. Chest hair’s just a distraction, and a gross one. I like my chests rounder and smooth, thanks. It’s four-to-one, though. Your jackboots was right mad when he found out, had to move the books from the tavern to one of the scouts’ cabins.”

Evelyn grinned. “Spoilsport.”

Sera snorted. “He’s got a right sword up his arse, he does. Glad you don’t, Hairy. Or Herring? Fish is good, got an ‘e’ in it like Herald, but Hairy’s funnier. Dunno how you fight with it that long.”

“One time I thought it would be a good idea to braid barbs in the plait so if anyone grabbed it they’d bleed.” Evelyn laughed. “I still have the scars on my back from when I fell on it.”

“I can hack it off for you.”

“Nah,” she replied. “I’m used to it. Besides, I...I don’t know. I like it. I never wear dresses anymore, but it reminds me of a time I did, I guess. And it’s a good distraction. If a man is busy drooling he won’t see the knife.”

Sera snort-laughed at that. “Better luck with your tits out, they’re nicer.”

“What are we talking about?” Bull asked, rejoining them. 

“Hairy’s tits.”

“Ah,” Bull said, nodding sagely. “They’re nice, boss. Good round shape, big enough to appeal, but not so big they get in your way in a fight.”

Evelyn felt a ridiculous urge to blush. It was absolutely absurd, given that she was hardly a virgin, and had been half or fully naked in front of this entire lot at least once. It was hard to be modest when your only bath choice was a river, after all. “Yes, unlike yours.”

Bull flexed his muscles proudly. “These babies help me in all situations, Boss.”

“She’s not entirely wrong, my dear, as much as it pains me to say. Wiles can be a valuable distraction should you use them correctly.” Vivienne smiled. Magic. It had to be magic for her to still look so cool and collected while Evelyn realized she was covered in muck and sweat and the clammy misty drizzle of this horrendous place. 

“Is that why your tits are half out all the time?” Sera asked, blatantly staring and Vivienne’s cleavage. It was rather dramatic. Evelyn rarely sought the company of women - though she hadn’t turned it down a time or two - but even she occasionally thought about what the valley of dark skin between those soft mounds would taste like on her tongue. 

Clever witch, that one. 

Vivienne smiled slowly. “Oh, yes. It’s quite effective.” All three of them grunted in agreement. “Shall we continue?”

“Maker, yes,” Evelyn said hoarsely, and took the lead. She tried very, very hard to keep her mind focused on the soldiers, not on adrenaline-fueled thoughts of burying her face in Vivienne’s breasts or Iron Bull’s large, rough hands on her own. She distracted herself by picturing Sera’s disappointment to not be featured in these brief fantasies. Which was a shame, in all honesty, as Sera’d be one of the few willing to make it quick and keep it quiet.

Maker’s breath. When was the last time she’d had anyone? It had been...well. A while. And it was likely to be a while yet, she told herself sternly. She couldn’t afford the distraction. Nor was it likely that the Herald of Andraste would be able to discreetly take care of that particular itch, even out on campaign. Rumors always found a way, and she couldn’t undermine the efforts of the Inquisition, not when they still had no idea who or what was behind the attack on the Conclave and the Chantry was set on dogging their every move. 

If she leapt into the next battle with a little more relish, it was no less than Bull did. At last, they’d established a path back to the base camps that was free of undead. Supplies and hopefully their rescued troops could move a little more easily. “Everyone good?” she called.

Affirmatives came back. “No way I’m trudging back out here so let’s keep going while the going’s going all right,” Sera said. 

“We are in agreement once more, it seems,” Vivienne drawled. “Twice in one day, no less! What is this world coming to?”

“A shitstorm of demons,” Bull replied succinctly. “Chargers! Let’s move out. Dalish and Grim, scout ahead; I think I can see the outline of a turret on the horizon. We must be getting close. I can smell the Avvar from here. Goat shit and pickled onions.”

…

They were close, all right. And the damn bridge was flooded with undead. It was tough going for a bit; keeping her footing on the wet, slime-covered cobbles took a stupid amount of energy. She’d lost a boot knife, taken a knock to the face that would leave her with a black eye until Vivienne got enough mana back to heal it. The chill of the rain was luckily keeping the swelling down somewhat, but her mouth felt numb and a few teeth might be loose. 

“Bull!” she shouted when the undead managed to group around a smarter demon than most. “Throw me!” 

“HELL YES!”

He made a step of his hands and she was airborne moments after her bootheel connected with it, neck tucked, body already pitching forward into a somersault. She flew higher than she’d initially thought (Bull being rather larger and stronger than Solas, after all) but landed well enough. She opted to save her breath for actual fighting, but couldn’t resist a short “SURPRISE!” which was sadly wasted on the undead.

They’d have to practice this. For the mayhem. 

Her blades cut cleanly through the enemy line from behind, decapitating two and taking out an archer with a well aimed throw. The rest fell easily enough as Vivienne took advantage of the hole Evelyn had created. 

She trudged over and retrieved her blade, then looked up as Vivienne called out a warning against a second wave. “They’re going to keep coming,” Bull yelled. “Head for the gates!”

Evelyn did just that, and ducked into a defensive roll as a barrage of arrows whizzed past her. Bull cursed roundly behind her as one skimmed his shoulder. The Chargers swarmed up the wooden ramparts and took out two of the archers, with Evelyn’s left blade taking out the last. Mirana had made her practice aiming with only one eye many times, and she’d never quite appreciated building that reflex until now. 

Maybe she and Bull could get matching eyepatches. Evelyn snorted to herself and Bull clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Stay with us, Boss, we’re not quite done here.”

She was remarkably, stupidly exhausted. But there was no way in the damned Abyss itself she was going to let those soldiers sit in this rotting stone shithole one minute longer. “Right,” she grumbled, “let’s go kick some ass, but this time in the name of the Maker.”

…

  
  


In the end, the fight itself was rather short. Another time, she’d have been disappointed, but as both her blades slid cleanly out from the Avvar brute’s eye sockets, only adrenaline kept her upright. She’d none to spare for thoughts on how it had gone down.

“How,” Bull mused, “are you even deadlier when you’re half unconscious?”

“Practice,” she grumbled through lips that were definitely swelling. She glowered at Vivienne, who delicately drank a lyrium potion with her elegant features untouched. Sera was at least sporting enough to have a matching black eye to make Evelyn feel better. 

They pulled the key off the corpse and Evelyn only fumbled slightly as she turned the rain-slick latch and shoved her shoulder against the oak to push it open. Inside, a dozen heads shot up, faces registering alarm, and then confusion, swiftly followed by relief. 

And then wonder, as Captain Rylen, whom she only barely remembered seeing in passing at Haven once, recognized her. “Herald!”

It was a good thing he wasn’t injured, as she stumbled slightly on the stonework as she entered and he caught her arm in a strong grip that steadied her. “I heard service here was terrible, so we’ve decided to move you to a new inn. If that’s all right with everyone?”

Rylen gave her a wry smile. “Only if there’s nug and turnip stew. I understand it’s a delicacy around here.”

“Turnips I can promise, and nugs are highly likely unless Sera can bag us a rabbit.”

“Bag your face a rabbit,” Sera muttered wearily. 

“Let’s get out of here, eh?” Evelyn. “Bull, can Stitches see to those too wounded to move immediately? We’ll leave a guard here while we move in a team of healers. I sent a scout ahead already back to the midway camp,” she continued, to Rylen. “Everyone else that can walk, we’ll move out as soon as First Enchanter Vivienne gets the wards set on the bridge to keep the undead off.”

…

  
  


Reinforcements were rapidly at hand as the Commander had arrived with additional healers and recruits ready enough to take on assignment in an already mostly secured area. Rylen had never been more relieved to see that pasty pale face in his life. He clapped arms with the Commander happily. “Good to see you still standing, man,” Rutherford said. “It seems the casualties were remarkably low.”

“Aye, sir, you did well teaching the men to fight, and teaching them when to stand down. It could have been worse. We’re just grateful the Herald got here when she did, though few of us expected her to take down that Hand of Korth bloke single-handedly. The Qunari mercenary tells me she had him down before the rest of them could blink.”

The Commander smiled wryly. “Yes, I saw her climb the back of a Pride demon and take it down once, so I imagine the Avvar was somewhat less challenging prey.”

Rylen whistled appreciatively. “Still, her companions reported that they and the Herald had battled through at least six swarms of undead before they even got to the ruins of Hargrave Keep. The First Enchanter says the Herald took a bad hit on the Keep’s bridge, so she’s got her back in her tent for healing.” He shook his head slightly. “She looked pretty rough when she got us out, but she walked the whole way back to camp under her own power. Probably running off pure adrenaline by that point.”

“I have seen few people fight the way she does,” came the rumbling of the Iron Bull. He planted his war axe blade down in the mud beside them and leaned on the handle. “Something like the fog warriors in Seheron almost, but different. She doesn’t do it every time, but when it gets bad she can disappear into the battle, like she’s not there and it’s just her weapons. She’s the wind that moves them. It’s mental skill as well as physical, but easy to overextend yourself, even for those as well trained as she is. When you lose yourself like that, it’s even harder to come back from than battle rage or battle lust. It takes you a while to feel your physical self again, to reassert your being in your own mind, and in that time you can get mortally injured and not even feel it.”

The Commander opened his mouth to say something, but the trio was distracted by the flap of the Herald’s tent. “She’s fine,” the Enchanter told them. “Cranky, and apparently she wanted a matching eye patch to the Iron Bull’s, but I had to inform her that wasn’t necessary. Nor would she get to have any Rivaini gold teeth, as I was able to re-root hers without any damage to that charming smile she’s currently wearing as a scowl. Well,” she amended, “that she was wearing, though by now it should be nothing but drool and snores.”

“You gave her the good stuff?” Bull asked. “You never give me the good stuff.”

“You, my dear, do not have a fractured cheekbone, a concussion, four broken ribs, a displaced hip, and seven snapped tendons.”

“No,” Bull agreed, “but I stubbed my toe  _ really _ hard.”

The First Enchanter rolled her eyes. “For the sixth and final time, no I will not ‘kiss it and make it better’.”

“That wasn’t about my toe.”

“Little difference to me, darling,” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked away. 

The Commander cleared his throat. “Right, well. Rest up, the lot of you. We’ll head back to Haven once the Herald can move.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *really* like writing both Bull and Vivienne.


	9. Half Naked in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn has some "alone time".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I waffled on posting this as the more introductory chapters haven't contained much in the way of smut. I also waffled on how explicit this story was going to get. But it's my story and I like writing smut, so you're getting smut. 
> 
> This chapter has no real impact on the story, so if you're uncomfortable with descriptions of masturbation, cunnilingus, and fingering, you can largely skip ahead to chapter 10. Evelyn reflects on a favorite fantasy of hers, of her very skilled first lover, but otherwise there's not a ton of backstory. The only other point of interest would be a shirtless Cullen standing in the rain, but you can imagine that without my descriptions and Evelyn's horny gaze, I'm sure. 
> 
> If you read the first sentence of the previous paragraph and thought "hell yeah", this chapter's right up your (hopefully legally old enough to read this) alley.

Whatever Vivienne had given Evelyn held her soundly asleep for a good long while. She awoke to the sound of thunder and a pleasant warmth that seeped through her bones. She was able to sit up with little soreness. The woman was really a wonder of a mage, though she’d have to be careful not to say that around Solas. 

Evelyn crept forward along her bed roll and the waxed canvas floor of the tent to peak out. It was early morning, and warmer than it had been the previous day. A few of the soldiers had been sparring, apparently, for warm up, but were now putting away their gear and retreating to tents to wait out the worst of the storm. She watched idly, pleased with how methodical and easily everyone moved. It spoke volumes to their training. She spied a few bandages, but most seemed to be healing well, which was a relief. 

She hadn’t really even felt the extent of her own injuries until halfway back to camp, when the sharpness in her side nearly took her breath away and her skull began to pound in earnest. By the time they made it to the tents, she had only half a thought to spare for the Commander’s timely arrival before Vivienne had whisked her away. Every step had become sheer agony. 

She’d been distracted at first by the team’s sexually-laced banter, though that was by far not the first bit of banter she’d participated in. It had been a long time, though, and the unexpectedness of such feelings had hindered her mobility until she’d been able to silence conscious thought and slip into the killing calm, as Mirana called it. From an objective distance, she supposed it was inevitable that she’d start having physical cravings: she did have a normal monthly cycle after all, and the shock of everything had begun to settle. Grief had been a distraction for a while, but now her body craved a distraction from grief itself. Pain only got her so far. 

With a start, she realized she hadn’t even touched herself since...well. She couldn’t remember the last time, though it had hardly ever been an irregular bit of care she bestowed upon herself. Even though sex with a bed partner was marvelous (usually - she did try to pick partners carefully and discreetly, even under guise as a mercenary), there were simply times when one knew what one needed best.

_ She could still remember that first time several years ago, into full womanhood but not as far as she felt like she was, back up against the rough bark of a tree, so sure she was alone. They’d had a hard ride out of Wycome woods, and something in it had stirred firmly the feelings that had only really lightly been on the periphery of her senses. A few idle strokes, some exploration in a bath, positioning herself discreetly in the team’s favorite swimming hole, so that the rushing water from the falls would send a current that ran over her legs and between with delicate and enticing caresses.  _

_ But she felt raw, and frustrated. Like she could scrape herself against the tree itself and it wouldn’t be hard enough. Her hand had been deep in her unlaced trousers, her leather vest still fastened tightly, but she’d pulled on breast free over the scooped neck and out of the linen shirt, and was pulling hard on her own nipple, whimpering.  _

_ He was older than her, not by much, but a little and he’d joked enough for her to know he was no novice. She hadn’t expected him to find her there, and neither had he. She had sworn viciously, and tugged her hand out of her leathers, quickly trying to replace her breast in her clothing. Her face burned with mortification and she prayed fervently to the Maker that he just strike her dead then and there.  _

Eamric, that was his name. 

Evelyn smiled to herself at the memory, watching the soldiers disappear back into their tents. A flash of sunlight glanced through the clouds and lit up the last remaining of the soldiers. Knight-Captain Rylen, she realized, feeling even more sheepish for spying. Oh. And the Commander. Both had trained shirtless and were laughingly putting away the practice swords, flesh red in places where they’d both taken hits.

Andraste preserve her wits. 

It wasn’t that Rylen wasn’t a handsome man. He was, and well-built, with compact muscles covered in deliciously tanned skin. But he moved his body in a methodical fashion, like it was a piece of dwarven machinery he was operating. Or a ship he was steering. It was not a language her own body spoke and as she caught the way his eyes followed another soldier, not a language he probably wanted her to.

Cullen, though...he moved like a song, or a dance. His movements were graceful and balanced and beautiful. She’d seen him fight, of course, watched that same grace on the battlefield, but never in such a relaxed, almost private moment as this. He was stiff in their war room meetings, tense and certainly as burdened as they all were under the various pressures building around them. 

But here, now, he paused and turned his face upward to the rainclouds, letting the drops hit him square in the face. He smiled, even, and ran a hand through his hair, not in weariness, but in sheer pleasure of a cool rain after a hard training session. It was a gesture that was not at all intended to be erotic, but somehow was...perhaps it was the sheer novelty of seeing the man even partially relaxed.

Her eyes followed the water down the planes of his face, the long line of his neck...his body was everything she desired in a man, as though one could place a custom order to the Maker for the perfect match to their passions. She’d noticed he was handsome, of course. She wasn’t blind, and half of Haven sighed over their aloof and gorgeous Commander. 

But in the chaos of everything, she hadn’t really...well, she’d noticed his hair. His eyes...but those had been casual thoughts lightly discarded in the face of more pressing matters. Matters were pressing now, of course, but right in that moment, she couldn’t say she cared about anything other than Cullen Rutherford standing half naked in the rain. 

_ Shit. _ This was  _ highly _ inconvenient. She could not be lusting after the Commander of the Inquisition forces just because she was feeling a little randy. She certainly couldn’t go out there and face him and whatever they needed to do next feeling like she was now. The dampness was already pooling between her legs. She was going to need to take care of it so she could focus again. 

Evelyn sighed and re-tied the tent flap firmly - and double checked her knots - so that anyone wanting to enter would have to call to her or tap on the canvas roof for her attention. This time, unlike that time she’d been reflecting on, it would not be a fun little sex adventure in the woods. 

Eamric, she thought with a lusty sigh, leaning back into her bedroll and letting her hands wander idly over her body. Vivienne had left her in a linen shift, and it wasn’t a particularly high quality linen. But the scratch of it had gone from uncomfortable to enticing as she moved it over her already aching breasts. 

_ Before she’d been able to fully right herself and run away from him, Eamric had stopped her. He hadn’t grabbed her, simply held up a hand. “Look,” he said, “I know things can get a little crazy, and after that job we just had, everyone’s jumpy. It’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed, please. Look at me, Evie. I’m not your uncle or aunt. I’m just another fighter, like you. And a friend who cares, so listen to me: it’s okay. If you don’t get it out of your system now, it’ll stick there and you won’t be able to get past it when you fight. It can be dangerous.” _

_ She hadn’t known what to say, breath heaving against the vest that seemed even tighter than normal, her breast only partially shoved back into it. Her nipple was still hard, her cheeks red, the wetness on her trembling fingers...her eyes darted to them, and Eamric’s followed. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. “I...I can leave you to it, and I won’t tell anyone. I’ll keep them off this path. Or…ah…” _

_ That was the first time she’d recognized lust on a man’s face. “I could help you,” he said, his voice more rough than she’d ever heard it.  _

_ “Help?” she squeaked. “How?” _

_ Eamric approached her slowly, his eyes never leaving her face until he was close enough to reach for her wrist...the wrist of her right hand, which was covered in her own slickness. “May I?” he asked, hovering above her wrist. “Nothing you don’t want, I promise. I wouldn’t do that to you, so you tell me if you don’t like something. Don’t stay quiet if it’s bad.” _

_ She nodded, heart hammering in her chest as he closed warm fingers around her wrist and brought it up to his face. He inhaled gently, his breath tickling her palm. Before she had time to even think about the fact that he was smelling the most intimate scent of her and smiling about it, he pulled her wettest fingers into his mouth. _

_ “Oh,” she sighed as the roughness of his tongue lapped at her sensitive fingertips and sucked them, murmuring that her taste was as good as brandy. His tongue rolled over her fingers and lapped at them like an exotic fruit and her knees trembled as desire shot hotly through her body.  _

Evelyn pulled up her linen shift and began gently rubbing her finger back and forth over her most sensitive bundle of nerves, squeezing it between her fingers occasionally in rhythm with her other hand as it pulled and squeezed her nipple. She reached down further, propping herself up on her lumped up blankets, inserting her middle and forefinger into herself. As she pulled out, she angled her palm and wrist to rub against that pleasurable nub. It was a good rhythm and a satisfying pace, and she settled into it with a shaky sigh.

_ Eamric pulled her fingers from his mouth and held them to his lips, giving them one final, loving lick. He kissed her palm. “I love the taste of women,” he told her, “and Maker help me, Evie, you taste delicious. I want to do that again, but not to your hand. I want to bury my tongue deep into your wetness until you reach that release you need. Can I do that? Would you like to try? You can tell me to stop at any time, and I will.” _

_ “Don’t stop,” she managed, gasping. Her fingers shook as she pulled at the fastenings on her vest and at last freed her breasts. He eyed them greedily, and gently cupped them in his hands. She nearly collapsed as he ran his thumbs over the hard peaks and took one in his mouth. “Oh, shit, shit, shit, Eamric,” she panted. “Everywhere. Touch me everywhere, please.” _

_ “Don’t be quiet,” he reminded her, then grinned. “Especially if it’s good.” _

_ He had her leathers and boots off with swiftness, his tongue bathing her as he went. He seemed most pleased with the parts of her that smelled strongly of leather and sweat, even pausing to gently suckle a toe. The tree trunk was the only thing keeping her upright by the time he placed his hands on her hips and looked up at her. _

_ That was the first time she understood the power that sex could wield, and the heady feeling of possessing something that another wanted badly, but would only take with her permission. She’d been warned, so many times, about the opposite. But here was a man, a strong man, stronger than her, rougher than her, more vicious in a fight than she, a man who revelled in chaos and bloodshed when his violence was unleashed...and he calmly, patiently waited for her permission. “Are you ready to try?” he asked. _

_ “Andraste’s tits, Eamric, yes,” she panted.  _

_ The first touch of his tongue on her sex was colder than she’d thought it would be and she gasped. But the sight of him, kneeling before her, hands raised on her hips and sides like he was praying to some ancient, forgotten goddess...that alone was enough to turn the gasp into a groan of desire. He took it as a positive sign, readjusting their position so that he was further between her legs and soon her parted thighs rested their weight almost entirely on his broad shoulders. As he licked and lapped, he moved a hand down and rested a thumb at her entrance; a place she’d only gently and occasionally explored, though had plundered with her own fingers when he found her. He pushed in just enough, just around the sensitive, aching flesh around the opening, and began moving it in circles while his lips closed around her apex and suckled her, tongue rapidly moving. She could practically feel her own arousal pour out of her as his thumb grew slick with her lust. _

_ Her entire body shuddered and instinctively she pressed her back against the tree and bucked against his face. Eamric held tight to her, pressing her further against the tree so she didn’t fall. “More,” she panted, not knowing how to give voice to what she needed, what her body craved. She reached behind her and held the trunk so she could stay upright while she rooted her heels in the soft earth and spread her legs even wider.  _

_ He practically growled into her flesh, and she felt his gentle thumb replaced by rougher fingers, first one, then slowly another. They moved gently as he suckled and licked at first but she was soon rocking her hips against his hand and face and moaning. He’d told her not to stay quiet, and there was nothing quiet in her low, almost animalistic groans.  _

_ Evelyn couldn’t take much more of it, she was panting so hard and shaking and soon she would simply dissolve, come apart at the seams in one hot white ball of heat. She burned from the inside out.  _

_ When Eamric looked up at her and moved his mouth slightly only to say, “Look at me when you come, Evie. Look at me,” she saw his lips coated in moisture and watched his tongue dip down to her once more. His eyes, darker than shadows, bore into her as he slowly moved his other hand around to cup and squeeze her bottom. His fingers were deep inside of her, and they pressed against her mound from the inside with a pounding rhythm and pressure that sent her spiraling out of her mind. _

_ She was pretty certain she’d screamed when she came. She held eye contact with Eamric when the first shudders started, she remembered that. But then everything was white hot fog as her body convulsed and shuddered around him. She fell at some point, but his mouth stayed on her, his tongue diving into her cunt and savoring every last bit of taste as her climax pulsed through her.  _

_ She came to lying disheveled in the dust and dirt and pine needles, with Eamric’s hand on her belly and his eyes on her face. He looked at her with disbelief and grinned. “Damn, Evie,” he breathed. “Damn.” _

_ She felt boneless and weary and absolutely fantastic. None of her attempts and small pleasures at night had ever gotten her anywhere close to the intensity of that orgasm. He brushed a hand over her wet sex, but it was too much and she shuddered, pulling away slightly. Eamric nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t press you too soon. Or ever, if you don’t want. But do you mind...I would like to pleasure myself while my hand is still wet with you, while you are still on my tongue. May I? Have you seen a man pleasure himself?” _

_ She shook her head. “No, but please. Show me.” _

Evelyn rocked back onto her bedroll, the blankets under her shoulders and body arching into her own hand. Eamric hadn’t been her only lover, but he was the first and the best. The years since had been sparse, and she’d returned often to the memories of that summer with relish. Sometimes even while she was with other lovers she thought of him; if they were somewhat lackluster, remembering the way he looked at her body helped her finish, often sending her into convulsions that gave them a false sense of skill. 

They had fought and fucked all summer long, and he taught her as much about the pleasure her body could bring as she had learned about violence. She had fallen in love, not with him, but with his body; its taut muscles, scarred skin, long fingers that could bring her to orgasm with swift skill. And she loved his cock. 

She’d heard some women discuss sex with men as something to be suffered through, something that was tolerated between wives and husbands in circles where marriages were arranged and affection was sparse. Even women who loved their husbands spoke of their bodies in whispers and sometimes with sneers. 

But back then, in the woods with Eamric, she’d had no concept of shame or disgust when it came to his body. She loved looking at it. She loved touching it. His erection was proud and strong and the knowledge of how easy it was for her to bring it forth in him made her just as aroused. Before him, she’d explored her body, knew objectively that she was an attractive female, but Eamric made her  _ feel _ it. In her heart and mind as well as the many deliciously creative ways he made her feel it in her body. 

When she’d asked him to show her how to pleasure him with her mouth and she did it successfully, his shouts of pleasure had startled the wildlife. Evelyn grinned and palmed her breast as she remembered swallowing his seed in the heat of the moment and the look of pure lust that crossed his face. He’d pushed her gently off her knees and onto her back, then slid, still rock hard, into her cunt, fucking her in the hard and fast way he knew she loved until they were a filthy, entangled mess on the forest floor. 

Evelyn shuddered and increased her pace, both hands now on her sex, one with fingers inside while the other rubbed furiously over that gloriously sensitive place. Her mind wandered, and a pair of amber-brown eyes and rain-slicked muscles began intruding. It brought a shock of intense pleasure, but her mind skittered away from it, embarrassed as though he could hear her fantasy from across the camp. The flavor of forbiddenness might make her come hard, but she’d never be able to look him in the face after it. Not so soon.

She brought her mind back to that first time, for even after she’d asked Eamric to be the first man that joined with her, no time since had ever really recaptured that intensity of her first (and second) climaxes with a partner. It was the newness, the exciting discovery, the sense of entering territory before forbidden but now open to her...there was never recapturing that. It was always different. Good, but different. She’d always be grateful for that, for the fact that it was him and his patient, passionate ways.

_ He never broke eye contact as he unlaced his trousers and drew out his cock. It was the first time she’d seen the fullness of a man’s penis, hard and erect like that. She had some idea of what it was like, but it was vague - stolen glimpses at farmhands and their sweethearts up against a barn wall, engravings in a book she was most certainly not supposed to read and of course did so secretly at night by the light of candle stubs. This was different. _

_ It was large (though later comparisons would have it rather average) and richly, beautifully dark like the rest of him, balls heavy and nestled in a mat of short and coarse brown curls. “May I touch you again? Just briefly.” _

_ She nodded, eyes on his fingers as they first danced and dipped over her sex, gathering moisture, and then curled around the base of his cock. He began stroking it, eyes roving across her bared flesh, licking his lips to absorb the taste of her as he stared at her swollen cunt. Evelyn spread her legs and he groaned.  _

_ She began to feel a slow, curling, honeyed ache. Less persistent and intense, but she was still so wet… _

_ When she touched herself as she watched him, he closed his eyes and slowed his pace for a moment. “Don’t stop,” he pleaded, lifting his eyelids and gazing at her. “Oh, Maker have mercy, don’t stop, woman…” _

_ She didn’t, rubbing herself in time with his strokes. She came again, far more gently this time, but still it was enough to send her shivering. When her eyes opened, he was hovering over her, and he leaned down to kiss her, which he hadn’t done before.  _

_ It wasn’t her first kiss, but it was her first real, lust-filled, sexual kiss. The taste of her cunt on his tongue was heady. “I’m going to come,” he panted. “Can I come on your breasts?” _

_ She was not entirely sure what that entailed, but was highly game for it. He straddled her torso and gave her an even closer view of his manhood as he pumped furiously with one hand, the other grabbing at her breast as a drowning man would a log. His body jerked once, twice, and thick ropes of seed spilled out onto her breasts. He kept stroking and emptied himself spurt by spurt until the warm, viscous liquid began to pool in her cleavage. She dipped one finger in it as he watched and tasted it. _

_ It was salty and awful and she made a face. He laughed and dismounted, rolling onto the forest floor beside her. He panted for a moment while she lay there unsure of what to do next. Then he moved and found a handkerchief with which he first cleaned her breasts off then himself. “Was that good, Evie?” _

_ “Shit. Yes. Thank you. I can’t… Can we do it again? Not right now, but…” _

_ Eamric lay back down beside her and pulled her flush against him, kissing her furiously and gently and then furiously again. “Yes,” he told her, “again, and again, as many times as you want. I will show you every pleasure I know, and maybe we can discover more together?” _

Evelyn came and bit her lip to keep herself from crying out with the force of it. It never failed to bring her to great heights as she felt herself clench around her own fingers. She’d seen what effect it had on lovers, had felt it herself on the few times she’d been with women - feeling the pleasure of another come to a head so viscerally was intoxicating. Knowing what she felt like when she came made watching the pleasure on a partner’s face that much better.

She lay on her back and let the pleasure slowly seep through her muscles, feeling light and blissfully free of burdens. It would come back, but for the moment, there was no guilt, no pain, just relaxation and the best of her physical self. Eventually she stirred as reality began to intrude on her thoughts, and sat up, retrieving a small cotton towel from her pack and wiping herself off with it. Walking with slickness still between her legs all day would be uncomfortable.

She folded her legs under her and sat thinking through her next plans. Occasionally her mind wandered back to Eamric, and she smiled. He was off somewhere in the northern Marches, last she’d heard. Had a wife and a kid, was still occasionally around for mercenary work but less and less as the years went on and his son grew older. She hoped he fared well in all the recent chaos. 

After that long, hot summer their ardor had eventually cooled. He taught her everything he knew about pleasure. She’d learned his own first time had been with an Antivan lady who had taken her time and instructed him with patience and passion how to stoke the fires of any woman. When Evelyn had asked him the secret, he sighed and told her that really it was incredibly simple: to listen. To watch, to pay attention to what your partner reacts to. So many men simply assumed women wanted the same things they did, but not even all men wanted the same things, now, did they? Everyone came in different shapes in sizes, after all. Not even all women and men had the same workings inside their trousers, so how could they all want just a quick and boring pump, eh? Sex was music, Eamric told her. Everyone had a different tune, and even with the same instruments the song was always unique.

Outside of physical passion, however, there was little common ground between them. They fought well together, they worked well together, but Evelyn had no idea what to talk to him about. His fighting style practiced well against hers, but there again physicality was the only factor that united them. She felt terrible about it until he let slip he was going to travel once the campaign in the woods ended. He’d asked her if she’d be angry, but she found that she wasn’t. She’d expected him to in turn be angry over that fact, but if anything, he was relieved. They spent the remaining time leisurely exploring and experimenting, with no thought or pressure of any future expectations. 

She dressed quickly in the tent, pulling on a clean set of everything and thanking the Maker she’d remembered a second pair of boots so the first could dry out. Her weapons would be in the armory tent, but the storm was waning enough that the camp was rousing itself again so she’d be able to get in easily enough. 

If only it were as easy now to find a lover like Eamric. Inventive, passionate, and completely emotionally independent. There was so little of her left anymore, so much that had died in the cellar and now even more of her had been carved out and destroyed in the blast that killed her cousins. How was she supposed to give any part of her heart to anyone and survive it? She couldn’t. 

That was the problem, she reflected wryly. No one was emotionally independent from her one way or another. Not under the banner of Andraste. That was the trade-off, then, for the usefulness of it in other places.

More important places, she reminded herself. Purpose was the only thing that would keep the grief from becoming a pit she’d never climb out of. Cassandra had been right: vengeance didn’t stop and do the things she’d done. It didn’t go out of its way to personally rescue soldiers that had been put in danger because of her title. It didn’t spend two days hunting, skinning, and carving wild rams to feed and clothe hungry refugees. 

Oh, she would have her justice for her cousins, but more than that...she had purpose now in building something in their honor. They had died for peace. She would find it and drag the world to it if she had to. 

She didn’t believe she was the Herald of Andraste by event, but Andraste had an army and strong, deadly allies. It wasn’t the worst example to follow. She wasn’t chosen, but she could choose.

Of course, as Varric had pointed out, the hero dies at the end in that kind of story. She had never feared death, though. She was in no rush to see Katie again, but something in her knew that somehow, whatever lay beyond, she someday would. 

And that day she could finally say, “I’m sorry.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagines death so much it feels more like  
> a memory  
> this is where it gets me  
> on my feet the enemy  
> ahead of me
> 
> (Evelyn's far less of a feral tomcat than Hamilton, but uses sex for much the same reasons. She doesn't yet feel like she can afford to love, or that she should get that privilege when she should by all rights be dead many times over.)


	10. A Templar's Wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some head canon about Templar abilities and such.

It felt great to get in a bout or two with Rylen while the clouds parted all too briefly. There were few Templars at Haven. Splitting their expertise out amongst other patrols in the Hinterlands to help steady the chaos and recruits had been paramount. Those that remained were on security patrols that ran counter to his own schedule, so they had no time to spar. Recruits just didn’t give a good enough fight to really satisfy him and keep him as sharp as he liked, so it was an unexpected joy to find an uninjured and restless Rylen. 

Cullen continued to stretch while holed up in his tent, waiting out the storm. It kept the muscles from contracting and becoming stiff and kept him limber. For once, he felt...mostly okay. He could practically smell the lyrium on Rylen, even though the Knight-Captain had taken a half-dose to bring him back up to normal without shocking his body. Yet Cullen had set his jaw firmly and refused to allow it to distract him.

It was progress, he thought, though he was all too well aware that one bad day could have it all crashing down again. 

_ I can do this. I  _ will  _ do this. _

As the storm lessened and the camp stirred again, Cullen dressed quickly in treated leathers and a few bits of obsidian armor that wouldn’t rust in the perpetual wetness of the Mire. Enough profit was starting to come out of the Herald’s efforts in the Hinterlands and Lady Josephine’s skill with merchants that he’d been able to bring a wagon load of new boots and thick wool cloaks to keep heads and feet dry. Scout Harding had practically wept when he handed her one that he had made specifically for her - it was perfectly sized for a dwarven body, but cut to wrap around and allow free movement. 

Aside from Rylen, Harding was probably his favorite recruit. She had incredible potential and he was determined to keep her on his scout patrols lest Leliana woo her away to her own ravens. Harding had a goodness about her that he didn’t want to see tarnished with subterfuge and espionage, though he would never dare tell the Nightingale that. The scout reminded him of what was best in Ferelden, like she could have been a neighbor of his family’s farm. Between Harding, Rylen, and Seeker Cassandra, he could feel anchored in the Inquisition from all angles of his past and his hope for the future. 

Which were also not sentiments he cared to share with anyone, except maybe Cass, if she asked. To everyone else, he was the Commander and would stay that way. 

He found the Herald buckling on the harness he’d had made for her, and felt ridiculously gratified that she still found use in it. She hadn’t even had alterations made, which also pleased him to a degree he found puzzling. Her normally shining auburn hair looked dull in the overcast light, and she’d twisted her usually long plait around the back of her head and pinned it firmly. She was preparing for a fight, then, and an unpleasant one. “Herald,” he acknowledged, “how are you feeling?”

She started slightly, and he realized she hadn’t for once heard him approach. Her brow had been furrowed in thought, but she was usually aware of anyone who crept up into killing distance. There was a pink color to her cheeks that worried him. “Commander. Better, thank you. Vivienne’s a marvel.”

“Are you certain?” he asked. “You look a little flushed.”

If anything, the color deepened. “Oh, no, I’m fine. Maybe an after-effect of the potion. It’ll wear off.” She seemed to shake herself. “At any rate, how’s Captain Rylen doing? I need to borrow a Templar. There’s something we need to take care of before we leave, so I can be sure the patrols here are safe. I don’t know if you’ll want to leave one here for long with the plague, but there’s a lot of good mineral veins in the granite outcroppings here that could be useful. Not to mention the sheer quantity of wild blood lotus.”

Trevelyan told him about the odd beacons and the encrypted veilfire runes. He agreed with her: from what she told him of the recovered journal on the last beacon, the apostate mage sounded unstable and dangerous indeed. The hubris of some mages in thinking they could outwit the demons that preyed on their very own minds never failed to astonish him. Demons couldn’t be outwitted, only outlasted. The minute one decided to play their game, all was already lost.

“Rylen’s resting on my orders,” he told her, reaching for his shield and sword belt, which had been well tended to by the camp amory. “I’ll go with you.”

For a moment, he thought she intended to argue, but she simply nodded. “Thank you. I’ll go rouse Bull and see if he can spare a few Chargers.”

As it happened, Bull decided to come with them himself. Only when they were halfway toward the outcropping Trevelyan was certain the mage was hiding in did he realize how monumentally stupid it had been of him to volunteer. 

He could still use his abilities, he could feel it there, under his skin. No one knew how long lyrium stayed in the body. Cassandra had a theory that it was the first draught that physically changed a Templar and gave them the powers, but the subsequent draughts were there only to keep them sane and steady. The price of that power. Dwarves were her example - they mined and lived near lyrium and were resistant to magic, but they didn’t ingest it. A mage’s magic could change a lyrium potion to simply another reserve of energy, but to a normal, non-magical human? What could it change then?

It was all conjecture, though; they had no evidence and no proof and no records they could find of anyone else trying to break the lyrium leash. He was forging a path with his own life and mind at risk. 

Still, the handful of times he’d used his powers, they’d left him feeling weakened, ill. If he collapsed, he’d put the Herald at risk, which was something he shouldn’t have chanced. He should have simply had her wait until Rylen could take the other half-dose and get back up to full physical strength. 

He couldn’t afford these stupid mistakes as the Inquisition’s Commander. He had to stop thinking like an individual soldier at times. By rights, he should have had more practice at it under Meredith, but she had kept him out of so much.

_ A pit, under a trap door in the back of the infirmary. Bones, so many, but wrong. Small. Too small. With dawning horror they realized that the children born in the Circle had not been sent off to others to monitor them. Meredith hadn’t taken the risk of bringing more mages into the world… _

No, it would do no good to reflect on his failure in Kirkwall. It would swallow him, mire him in guilt and self-recrimination. He had to move forward. That was the only choice. The horrors of Kirkwall had happened and he could either let it mean nothing or let it fuel his determination to be better, do better. 

At times, all he really had was his determination and willpower, but he would wield those as firmly as the sword at his side if he had to. 

As it happened, he needn’t have worried. By the time they found the apostate Widris, she was so deep in her madness that she let the demons attack before drawing on her own power. As Bull charged and Cullen began to feel for the threads of magic he could follow back to the target and Silence, Trevelyan took one step forward and hurled one of her blades.

It caught the mage square in the chest, the everite blade sharp enough to slice through ribs if given enough momentum. Widris’s eyes went wide and she fumbled to cast for only a moment before falling forward, dead. The magic, gathered but with no direction, fizzled out of existence before Cullen could even push it to do so. 

He and Bull made short work of the demons - a handful of Shades and one Rage demon, not even a Pride in sight. He snorted. “I thought she said the demons were clever,” he drawled.

Trevelyan threw him a wry look. “Hubris is as hallucinogenic as a good deep mushroom.”

“Boss, look at this.”

“Oh, it’s one of those Veil-measuring artifacts Solas mentioned. Hold on, I can activate it.” An oddly carved shape, round and something like an astral globe but not quite hummed awake as Trevelyan ran her marked hand over it. A swirl of green energy enveloped it, and he felt the touch of the Fade tingling at the edge of his senses. It felt different from a mage’s energy, though, hazy and radiating from a distance, much like the mark the Herald bore itself felt when it wasn’t active. 

Cullen had read the report, of course, but seeing it up close left him with a feeling of unease. The ancient elves had known so much about magic, it seemed. More than Tevinter ever had, and yet what had happened to their empire? It had not only fallen, but fallen so catastrophically that centuries later the elven people had still never recovered. There was a lesson in that.

The rain began to pick up again, and Cullen looked up at the sky in irritation. “Well, shall we?”

“I suppose I didn’t need a Templar after all, but I appreciate the assistance anyway, Commander.”

“It was good to get out and stretch my legs a little, Herald.” They left the clearing via another crack in the rocks rather than wade back through the marsh and encounter more undead. 

Bull snorted. “A fine warm-up, but we still haven’t had a proper work out.”

A flash of green light caught Cullen’s eye as the Herald gasped and shook her left hand. “Well,” she said wryly, looking around, “you’ll get that chance. There’s a rift nearby. Unfortunately, those artifacts only help prevent new tears, not seal those already open.” She wiggled her fingers and winced as the light flared up again.

“Does it hurt?” Cullen asked.

Trevelyan sighed. “It’s fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’ve felt worse. Let’s go, Commander.”

…

Evelyn swore as she was knocked back and lost her footing. “What the shit hell is that?”

“Revenant,” the Commander growled, bringing his sword around and slicing through a fire wraith. “Cover me.”

Bull swung into immediate action, his long-handled war axe slicing through the air like a whirlwind of death. The Commander stood in defensive position but he seemed to be gathering his strength.

Oh. Shit. Evelyn rolled out of the way of a Shade and reached with the magic of the mark to pull against that Fade energy. The wave of backlash energy when she failed to close a rift seemed to stun the demons, and she’d started to wonder if it weakened them as well. It would hopefully give Cullen the edge he needed as he unleashed what she could only think had to be his Wrath. 

Max had described it to her, and Edmund had oh so helpfully demonstrated what it felt like when she’d asked. She’d seen stars for days, and been blinded for two more. Edmund had told her ruefully that if it was Max that had struck her instead, she’d not be able to walk. Apparently Templar abilities were as much about a person’s will and strength of conviction as well as what was granted by lyrium. 

Bull also caught wind of it and held his arm up over his good eye, just as Evelyn ducked her head down and the force of Templar power was unleashed. 

She heard rather than a saw a gargled inhuman scream and reached out again with the mark, this time feeling that hooking sensation that meant she could close the rift. She did so, and only when the brightness had faded beyond her eyelids did she look up. 

What was left of the corpse the Revenant had been was essentially dust and armor, its shield rolling down the slight incline and clattering to a halt. Cullen sagged on his knees, one hand on the hilt of his sword, which was thrust into the soft ground for purchase. She ran over to him as Bull did a final sweep of the area for anything aggressive. 

“Commander?” she asked, kneeling in front of him. He looked ill and pale. 

His hand trembled slightly as he wiped it over his face. “I’m...all right. It’s just been a while since I did that.” He sat back on his heels with a sigh. “There weren’t enough of us to fight off a Revenant.” 

Evelyn’s by now dislocated shoulder and bruised ribs agreed. She placed her wrist between her knees and popped her shoulder back into place with a grimace. Throwing light swords around tended to result in that particular injury before one was fully trained, so she’d had plenty of practice in remedying it. It was still never pleasant, though. 

“I’ve heard of them, but never seen one. You’ve fought them before?”

“Once,” Cullen told her with a vacant look in his eyes that she didn’t like. He shook himself out of it, though. “The demons that come through the rifts are by and large hampered by the shock of quick contact with the living world. A Pride demon in its natural form is fearsome, but lumbering. Desire demons are fragile, generally, their greatest strength being manipulation. But one of those possessing a human body, even a dead one? Revenants have been known to wipe out entire legions of trained soldiers if possessed by a particularly powerful demon.”

Evelyn stood and offered her uninjured hand to the Commander. “I’m glad you were with us,” she said. “I’ve only seen a Templar’s Wrath once, but this was four times as strong as his, easily. Of course,” Evelyn added, “Edmund had the force of will of a somewhat turgid fish.”

He gave her a weak chuckle at the analogy and took her hand. “It’s taxing to unleash that much power at once,” he acknowledged, “even for Cassandra and she’s easily stronger than I am. Most Seekers are, but she’s a league beyond them. Luckily, I can rest on horseback.” He winced as he found his feet and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

“Vivienne’s got a marvelous tonic for headaches. Let’s go.”

The trio trudged back to camp, and Vivienne grew so frustrated at the sight of them bedraggled and reinjured that she deigned to frown. Cullen accepted the headache tonic, Evelyn noted, but waved off any additional healing. How the man was still standing after that attack was astounding. 

She hadn’t been lying when she said he was easily four times as strong as Edmund, but she didn’t even think Max could have matched the Commander’s willpower. He’d tried to explain Templar abilities to her before, growing irritated with her when she kept noting that it sounded just like another kind of magic. He kept insisting it was different.

_ It’s like...you know how dwarves are resistant to magic because they’re around lyrium all the time? It’s like that but outward. We resist magic with lyrium, but we push the boundary beyond ourselves with our own thoughts, our own control. Our faith, our sense of self, and our determination. _

The Iron Bull took a seat beside her by the campfire. Vivienne had been gracious enough to erect an enchantment that shunted the rain away from the camp borders. Well, it wasn’t exactly an enchantment, but Evelyn hadn’t been able to follow Vivienne’s explanation very well. Something about a repeating spell cycle. She made a mental note to ask Solas later. He’d at least explain it without the well-meaning condescension. 

She noticed Bull was frowning at the Commander’s tent, deep in thought. She nudged him lightly. “Copper for your thoughts? Two if they’re naughty.”

“Oh, I can give you plenty of naughty thoughts, no need to pay. But right now, all I’m wondering about is the last time I’ve seen your Commander take so much as a lick of lyrium. Damn me if I can’t think of a single time.”

“You’ve been watching him that closely, have you?”

“Like you haven’t. I’ve got eyes. Er, eye. Don’t think he’s interested in big horny guys like me, though. Cullen’s the type that needs to feel like a protector. Or an equal,” he added, glancing at Evelyn. “Someone who could keep him on his toes, or off them.”

Evelyn snorted. “You’re as bad as the barmaids back at Haven.”

“And the kitchen maids, and the Chantry sisters. No one is as randy as a bored Chantry sister.”

She choked on the giggle that rose up in her throat. “That was not a mental image I needed.”

“When we get back to Haven, maybe I’ll get to find out how many of them are hiding red hair under those cowls. And robes.” He stood. “Anyway. Keep an eye on what we just discussed.”

“The Chantry sisters or the Commander’s preferences?”

“All of the aforementioned, Boss. Three eyes are better than one.”

...

  
  


Solas called for her to enter before the second knock, and she eased open the cabin door to find him reading, of all things, Varric’s crime novel. He looked at her over the edge of the book. “Tell me, Evelyn, is Ostwick anything like Kirkwall?”

“There are some similarities in the city,” she admitted. “It, too, was once part of the Imperium. But Ostwick was never a slave port, so there’s no depressing brass statues. It’s also really two cities up against each other: there’s the fishing port and then the double-walled fortress. The former fortress is tiered in the Tevinter style, with the higher elevations supporting the estates of the wealthy, and the lower the slums.”

“And the alienage?”

“Yes,” she admitted, taking the seat Solas waved her to. “It’s better than most, but far less than it could or should be. We’ve always had good trading relationships with the Dalish and that goodwill’s spilled over onto the elves who live in the city. Not that it should have to, but I am not the Teyrn.”

He tilted his head. “But you might be. Tell me, do you have plans?”

She frowned in thought, though not at the question itself. Somehow from Solas, it was far less intrusive. He made no assumptions, simply waited for her answer, but as with most of his questions, there were hidden layers that he laid out quietly to see if she would notice. 

“To be completely honest with you, Solas, I’ve never let myself think much on the subject. It doesn’t seem real.”

He closed the book and set it aside. There was something almost grandfatherly in the way he set it aside and sat upright, regarding her patiently. It felt incongruous with his fairly young face. Despite his baldness, if pressed, she might place him somewhere in his mid-thirties by looks, though far older by attitude. She supposed she had something of that in herself, having very little in resemblance to other noble girls her age. There had been too much pain, and pain brought hard lessons, which brought knowledge and eventually wisdom. 

What pain had Solas been through to earn that careful and impenetrable reserve? 

“You’ve lost someone or something you held dear,” she ventured. He blinked and there was a sharpness to his gaze that hadn’t been there a moment before. Evelyn looked away from it and into the hearthfire. “I won’t ask, though I will listen should you ever wish to speak of it. But...I wonder, do you feel it, too? The sense that you shouldn’t be here, that everything is the result of that one mistake you cannot fix, but you still struggle to understand how life is now laid out before you? I feel as though I’m constantly looking around and wondering how I got here. Wondering when I’ll wake up. It’s been thirteen years, and still. I still feel it. That I died then, and this person I am now is simply a construct.”

She looked up and regretted pressing the thought. Solas looked stricken. She gave him a wry half smile. “That’s why it was easy at first to wear the role they want here. The Herald of Andraste. More and more, though, they push me to the front and then it’s the role I put on myself, and that becomes more difficult to separate from what’s left of who I am.” Evelyn sighed. “Why is it we only speak of deep and painful things, Solas? We barely know each other, in the scheme of things.”

He was silent for a moment, mastering whatever inner turmoil she’d churned up with her words. “I do not know, Lethallan.”

“I suppose times like these intensify everything, including friendships. But to answer your actual question I do and I do not have plans. I know what I would morally feel is right, and I would have no qualms about trying to affect those changes. Yet not everything would or should be within my power to alter. Some things must be altered in partnership, don’t you think? Enough people in history have told the elves what to do.”

She looked at Solas, her resolve hardening. “And mages.”

That got his attention. “Are you suggesting what I believe you are?”

“If things continue on their current path, we will be as hamstrung with circular arguments as the Chantry. I intend to break the deadlock on our council and go to Redcliffe to at least speak with the rebel mages.” She shook her head slightly. “I don’t trust the Lord Seeker, and I cannot trust what’s left of the Templar Order. Any worthwhile have already defected to us. The rest are either zealots, bigots, or followers whose loyalty is terribly misplaced.”

“The same could possibly be said of the rebel mages.”

“You’ll notice I’m asking you and not Vivienne.”

“I had noticed, and it is appreciated.”

“Can you be ready to ride out tomorrow? We’re going bandit-hunting with the Chargers on the East Road.”

“Which conveniently lies in conjecture with the Redcliffe Road.”

“How very coincidental. I hope no one gets injured in the fight and we need extra healers.”

He smiled. “That would be terribly awkward and yet utterly unavoidable.”

Evelyn grinned.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's maybe laying it on thick, but it makes sense for Solas and my Evelyn's friendship. I played the Inquisitor as very perceptive and questioning. In Trespasser, Solas remarks that the Inquisitor has always seen more than they should. I thought this was sort of natural - there's a lot that Evelyn keeps close to herself, not necessarily out of fear of discovery but simply because it's too painful. She sees similarities to her her pain in Solas, so she doesn't press him. 
> 
> ...maybe she should, but she won't.


	11. The Gull and Lantern

“Everyone okay?” she called. “Solas? Varric?”

Grunts answered her, and she stood on shaky legs. “That was truly bizarre,” Solas commented. “It was as if the rift affected more than simply the Veil. Or more of the Veil, perhaps? The Fade has no real movement of time, I wonder if it somehow pulled more of the Fade into this world?”

Evelyn frowned as she watched Scout Ritts, whom she’d sent ahead, approach the village gate from the inside. Ritts was technically Leliana’s, but ever since Evelyn and Varric had caught her out in her little indiscretion while on duty, she mostly reported to Evelyn on the side. 

There was little doubt in her mind that the spymaster knew full well what Evelyn and her team were up to. Yet the longer Evelyn could keep up the appearance of having given Leliana the slip, the longer Leliana could potentially buy them. It was a gamble, but Leliana had been firmly on the side of recruiting the mages. Cassandra had been as well, but she would insist on doing things above board with the rest of the Inquisition council, and that was time Evelyn could not afford. 

“If there’s no movement of time within the Fade, that would account for the slowing down, but not the speeding up,” she replied. “Right? Oh, Maker, I don’t know, I’m not a mage.”

“Most mages wouldn’t know, either, Lethallan. It’s not as though this is common magic.” There was a note of superiority in the statement that had her quirking an eyebrow, but that was Solas for you. Also Vivienne. Also every mage she’d ever met, if she were honest. “Your instinct serves well, though. There’s something else at work here.”

Ritts drew up close. “Herald,” she said. “I asked after the Grand Enchanter, but…”

Her frown deepened. “Is Fiona no longer here?”

“She’s here, only not expecting you. The mages seem confused about the Inquisition, and there’s something else. A Tevinter magister is here.”

Tevinter? This far south? “Thank you, Ritts. Change out of that uniform and see what you can charm out of people.” She pulled out a small leather coin purse. “For the inevitable bar tab.”

Ritts smiled slyly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Varric exchanged a look with Evelyn as Ritts strode off. It was a look born of the vast experience of two native Free Marchers. “Slavers?”

“They wouldn’t stick around. They’d get who they wanted and leave quickly. I’ve never heard of them raiding this far south or this far inland.”

Varric grunted. “Yeah, been down that road with a friend before. Nasty lot.”

A tall, slender elf met them as they walked into the gate. He introduced himself as Lysas and informed them that the Grand Enchanter would meet them in the tavern. And that Magister Gereon Alexius was now in charge of the rebel mages. Though he framed it as though this Magister Alexius was now in charge of Redcliffe itself. 

Her mood settled from puzzled to grim as Lysas darted off. “If there’s an actual member of the Magisterium and not just a random Tevinter mage here, this is going to be trouble. The war-causing kind. Varric, while Solas and I head to the tavern, can you sneak a raven out to Leliana?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Shit. Watch your back, Stabs. You too, Chuckles.”

Solas inclined his head, his expression unreadable and serene. Evelyn focused and made herself match his outward unruffled appearance. It was an effort to ignore the tightening knot of concern in her stomach, but she used the heightened senses fear brought with it as best she could. 

This was absolutely stupid. She was a twenty-three year old minor noble who preferred running around the countryside stabbing things for money to meddling in politics. She did not have the experience or savvy to not accidentally step in the shit pile she was now hip deep in. Tevinter in Ferelden? This was a matter for kings, for ambassadors and not Evelyn Trevelyan. 

The self-recriminations continued until they’d stepped inside the tavern. The Grand Enchanter met them with a pale face, and confusion once more took over from fear. “Grand Enchanter,” Evelyn greeted. “What’s the meaning of all this? Why approach me in Val Royeaux if you were intending an alliance with Tevinter instead?”

Fiona frowned. “I am sorry, Herald, but I have not been to Val Royeaux since the war began.”

Evelyn and Solas traded glances, and he shrugged minutely. “Then whom did I meet? Do you have an identical twin running around Orlais making diplomatic bargains for you?” That was it, channel Grand-mère. Cool, collected, clipped. Face a mask. Give them nothing. Not the purring panther that was Vivienne, but the lioness of Ostwick. Danger was both a mask and truth.

To her credit, Fiona seemed more shaken by her words than her cold exterior. The Grand Enchanter was Orlesian as well, and one did not have her history without a spine of steel. Yet she was deeply disturbed by something, more than just the fear of so many lives in her care. Something was wrong, and Evelyn had a sinister feeling that not even the Grand Enchanter quite understood what. 

There were enough third or fourth or six-times-removed cousins still in Tevinter that Evelyn knew not all the tales of blood magic and horrors were true. Yet no one could quite deny that many things happened within the Imperium that shouldn’t. Things that would have sparked more than one Exalted March had Minrathous been any less of an impenetrable fortress of a city. 

“You deserve better than slavery to Tevinter,” Solas commented. His tone was calm, but Evelyn could hear the anger underneath his voice. She could only imagine how deep it must run. He was an elf as well as an apostate, and the idea of either mages or elves being subservient to another - especially the Imperium - must be utterly repellant. 

Evelyn locked eyes with the Grand Enchanter. “This is quite possibly the worst possible decision you could have made.”

A humorless half-smile greeted that statement. “Worse than pushing for a vote that began a rebellion?”

“Far worse,” Evelyn replied, refusing to play along. “You were right to push against the Chantry and the Circle. The very structure of it all has been rife with corruption and bigotry for far too long. But Tevinter cannot be the answer. You’re merely trading one extreme for another.”

“One form of slavery for another,” Solas added, driving home her point succinctly. 

“Not to mention the fact that you’ve brought a hostile foreign power onto lands without treaty; trespassing on King Alistair’s good will. Whatever good the king has done for mages within his borders will be undermined, and this used as fuel for his detractors.” Evelyn willed her hands to stay still at her sides and not running through her hair in exasperation. “The rest of Thedas is not Orlais, Grand Enchanter. There are no dancing games and subtle knives in Ferelden. Civil wars are often fought over less.”

The Grand Enchanter paled slightly and opened her mouth as though to speak, yet a look of confusion crossed her features. Solas caught Evelyn’s attention as the tavern door opened and a brace of guards in Tevinter clothing entered. “Something is very wrong here,” he whispered to her, and she nodded slightly.

Everyone knew the stories about Tevinter and blood magic. How blood magic could supposedly control the mind. But the mind of such a powerful mage as the Grand Enchanter? Or of a whole village full of rebel mages who seemingly had no memory of the Enchanter’s trip to Val Royeaux? 

As the magister entered, Evelyn braced herself. He was every bit the smug politician, and she found herself channeling far more of Grand-mère than before. Haughty and cutting, her father’s mother could have gone toe-to-toe with the Archon himself. She’d abandoned the flippancy of her native Orlais, but blended the insincerity and cunning to a Free Marcher’s forthrightness and arrogance for an entirely new flavor of terrifying. She’d only been nice to babies. 

Only his evidently sick son cracked the veneer of superiority in the magister, and Evelyn saw a flash of the pure fear that only came of deepest love. The Grand Enchanter tossed her a look of mixed confusion and nerves before smoothing her face and following Magister Alexius and his son out of the tavern. 

Solas approached her and opened his mouth as though to speak, but she touched his arm and gave him a slight shake of her head. She’d felt...something...when the Magister left, some twinge in her hand that had her feeling distrustful. Evelyn approached the innkeeper and asked for a room, and Solas followed her curiously up the stairs, only quirking his brow once as she said one room would be fine.

Once the door was firmly closed, she mouthed ‘play along’ to Solas and moved as though to embrace him. His mouth twitched with amusement as she spouted nonsense about fearing they’d lost the mages and how were they going to seal the breach now and oh no, Tevinter. He opened his arms, patting her back reassuringly and offering equally saccharine responses. She could hear no laughter in his voice, but the spark of entertainment was bright in his eyes. 

“Can you find me,” she whispered, barely audible, “in the Fade?”

He pulled out of the embrace slightly and gave her a nod, and gestured with his head toward the bed. Evelyn waggled her eyebrows slightly and it was well worth it to see just how far Solas could roll his eyes. They curled up, for all the world two exhausted lovers taking a few minutes’ respite before the next challenge presented itself. 

Her left hand tingled as she felt the light touch of Solas’s magic. Where his combat barriers felt cool and solid, this magic felt warm and relaxing. Her eyelids drifted down and she had only a moment to think that his shoulder did not make a good pillow at all before a delightful darkness wrapped itself around her. 

And she woke up to the same room, but not. It shifted at the edges, everything tinged in green. Solas sat beside her, smiling. “You are full of surprises, Lethallan. You sensed the listening spell before I did.”

She looked at her left hand. “I think maybe the mark’s left me sensitive to magic. Or at least, certain kinds of magic, maybe?”

“That would make sense,” he told her. “This particular spell is rather ingenious in its use of the Veil’s energy, essentially piggy-backing on it to transfer sound. Perhaps sight as well, which why you opted for this charade, I assume?”

“It seemed a safe bet,” Evelyn said. 

“Speaking of charades, what did Felix’s note say?”

She frowned slightly. “He wants to meet in the Chantry this evening. Seems...hmm. It has the obvious feel of a trap, but with Tevinter guards all throughout Redcliffe, the Magister has no need of such a ruse. Unless he fears the mages turning against him?”

“My gambling days are long gone, but I believe any such deal with Tevinter would involve magic in its contract. It is likely they cannot back out of it without consequences. As well,” he added, a light current of venom in his words, “the Grand Enchanter lacks the spine.”

“Does she? What do you know of blood magic, Solas?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Not much, admittedly. Regular use of it somehow inhibits control in the Fade, so I’ve never bothered to learn it. The Circle does teach some resistance to thought influence, though, I believe. Though I suppose it would be difficult to put theory into practice without experience - and by outlawing blood magic, the Chantry has made that impossible.”

Evelyn looked at him appraisingly. “Let’s table that discussion for later. I would love to discuss blood magic further over a good port and some toasted cheese back at Haven.”

Solas laughed. “I do not understand your obsession with toasted cheese.”

“It’s an Ostwick thing. You tell me about blood magic and I’ll make you toasted cheese on rye bread with a good spicy sausage.” 

Solas snorted. “That is hardly a fair trade, but I accept your terms. Now, if I understand you, you’re implying blood magic may be involved in influencing this alliance?”

“The thought had occurred.”

“You might be correct, though it would take power to sustain.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that Tevinter minded the loss of a few enslaved,” she countered grimly. 

He hummed his agreement. “Well, then. Shall we find Master Tethras and see what’s in store for us in the Chantry?”

“Let’s.”

  
  


…

  
  


What awaited them was a rift and a suave, arrogant, absurdly handsome Tevinter bastard named Dorian Pavus. Evelyn loved him immediately, despite her better judgement. “Time magic?”

“Do you doubt my word? I’m insulted.”

“You’re an insult wrapped in six layers of buckles,” she countered. “How do you know this?”

The Tevinter mage sighed. “I helped Alexius develop the magic. At the time, it was pure theory, but he somehow got it working. I think it was the Breach in the Veil, that the Veil somehow prevented this magic from working.”   


Varric looked to Solas. “Chuckles?”

“Fascinating, and yes, it would. But the Breach is only temporarily stabilized, and it is but one - albeit large - tear in the Veil. That would make such magic dangerously unstable.”

Pavus gave Solas an appraising look. “Yes, it would. So what I don’t understand is why. Why risk something capable of tearing apart the fabric of the very world to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“He didn’t do it for them.” 

Evelyn turned to see a pale Felix enter. Some sort of wasting illness, and his father was obviously terrified at the thought of losing him. Yet by the time he’d finished explaining, it was Evelyn that felt four shades paler. She swore, roundly. Everything was bad enough without adding a Tevinter cult on top of it. 

Varric caught her eye with a grim expression. “Could these Venatori be behind the Conclave explosion? One way to destabilize the south effectively is to take out the Chantry.”

“Possibly,” Pavus admitted. “But it would require an enormous amount of power, and that’s not easily had, even in Tevinter. The amount of mages required would have garnered notice, and the Venatori numbers aren’t that large. Yet. Officially, anyway,” he added bitterly. 

Evelyn narrowed her eyes. “I would bet they’re involved, but something else is behind this. The timing makes no sense. Yes, the Conclave would be opportune, but Tevinter has no army ready at the go to press the advantage or they would have already. It’s possible the Breach was a side effect of whatever magic blew up the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but...I don’t know. It’s too...too big. It’s like the Breach was the intention all along and the Conclave explosion was the side effect.”

She looked at Solas, who was giving her a calculating, approving look. “That seems entirely possible, yes,” he agreed. “And mages would not have needed to be moved in secretly. Operatives may have smuggled in a powerful artifact, a focal point for the spell, to amplify and direct it.”

Pavus frowned. “I know of no object capable of such.”

“Simply because you lack the knowledge does not mean such a thing doesn’t exist,” Solas countered smoothly. 

“The Venatori are obsessed with you,” Felix told her. “Whether it’s the power you hold they want, or they want to get rid of any powerful figure in their way, I don’t know. But you are a target.”

Evelyn snorted. “They can get in the queue.” 

…

  
  


Evelyn collapsed on her bedroll, staring at the fire Varric was prodding with a stick. They’d made camp halfway back to the Crossroads, having reunited with the Chargers. That lot sat around another fire nearby, laughing over ale and their successful bandit-hunting exploits. Bull had brought her some notes on a lyrium smuggling operation, and she added that to her mental list of things to look into once back in Haven. 

Varric looked over at her as Solas sat down and passed over a water jug. “So,” he said, “I found something out that makes a little more sense now.” 

Whatever it was seemed to disturb Varric, so Evelyn sat up but didn’t press, letting him take the time to form his words. The dwarf didn’t look at them, only stared into the fire with a blank expression. “Remember that creepy skull on a creepy stick that lit up creepy shit we found?”

Solas tilted his head. “The keystones, yes. Ah. These Venatori, I take it?”

“Yeah. I picked a lock on a shack down by the water.” Varric tossed his makeshift fire poker into the fire and rubbed his face. “But the worst part are some notes I found. The skulls? They’re Tranquils. Not Tevinter. Ours.”

The implication settled over Evelyn and made her ill. “Shit.”

Solas looked as angry as she felt. “What a tragic waste of life,” he muttered. 

She hadn’t even stopped to wonder what had happened to the Tranquil when the Circles fell. She’d just assumed the Chantry had taken care of them. “Shit. Fucking shit. They...what? They just let them wander? They stole their minds and then leave them to fend for themselves at the first sign of trouble? The Templars, the mages, the fucking Chantry.”

Varric looked up at her. “Yeah.”

Evelyn stood, frustration mounting. All her fears for her little sweet cousin, Owen, surfaced in a rush. Her anger at how he’d been dragged away, even after his father had locked him in his room until the Templars came. Her fury that no one in the family had even bothered to write to him, how they simply cut him loose without a word. The guilt that circled her heart every time she managed to talk her way into the Ostwick Circle tower just to see him, and how he lit up as though seeing family was the greatest gift he could have received. She hadn’t done it enough, she hadn’t seen him enough. Her fear had once been his death, but what if he was made Tranquil? What if one of the skulls they’d used had been Owen’s?

“Fuck,” she said. “I need...I’m going to take a walk. I need a minute.” 

Neither bothered to stop her, both lost in their own unpleasant thoughts. She walked until her feet took her to the small stream they’d passed earlier. She knelt and splashed some water over her face to hide the tear marks. 

She’d never been faithful, herself, but so many others had sought hope and comfort in the Chantry. Even Owen had expressed some faith, but what did the Chantry care about in return? Power, and only for mundane humans. Not elves, not dwarves, not mages of any race. Not even all mundane humans, only those with titles and money, for look at Orlais! Orlais was the home of the Chantry, its birthplace as an organization. And that country was torn apart by civil war, but the violence was played out on fields to the south, away from Halamshiral and Val Royeaux, away from the wealthy estates. While the lands of simple peasants and trade routes of ordinary merchants, and home of miners were threatened and beset by horrors, the nobles of Val Royeaux danced and hid behind masks. 

No land in Thedas was any better. Perhaps they all should become Red Jenny, punishing not only the rich and wicked, but the world at large. Let it all burn. 

Evelyn sighed. Such thoughts were no better, not really. Besides, the world was what it was. She couldn’t change it, not with whatever limited time she had left. And who would listen to her? She might have the ear and attention of some radical zealots right now, and have the trust of the few who saw the insane story of her rescue by Andraste as a useful tool. That wouldn’t last, though, not beyond sealing the Breach. 

Quite honestly, she was fairly sure she would not last beyond sealing the Breach. Even Solas didn’t think so, though he’d never expressed such a concern in words. He did not keep it from his expression, however. 

With a sigh, her anger spent, she picked herself up off the stream’s bank and headed back to camp. 

  
  



	12. Toasted Cheese and Port

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein besties chat and play cards, Evelyn whips the snot out of her companions in the training ring, and a plan is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, but the next one's going to be long.

“Your hide is still seemingly intact, Evie.” Solas commented, handing over the bottle of port to Varric. 

The dwarf laughed. “Yeah, can you even hear us right now or are you temporarily deaf from Cassandra’s squawking?”

Evelyn sighed and shifted the metal roasting fork over the fire. “The Commander yells the loudest. I never thought a human could actually, literally roar. Pretty sure I’ve got a gray hair from it.” She accepted a glass of port from Varric and nodded gratefully. 

They sat arrayed before her cabin’s fire, all three on a plush bear hide she’d had tanned and turned into a rug. Solas had laughed hard enough to bring tears to his eyes when she’d told them it was the bear that attacked their camp in Hafter’s Woods. It was a rare thing to break through the wall of his reserve, but delightful when it happened. 

“You don’t seem particularly perturbed,” the elf commented. He unwrapped a loaf of fresh rye bread he’d brought from the tavern kitchen. Flissa had been so delighted with his simple preserving spells on the food that she let him take whatever he wanted whenever he stopped by. “This response was well anticipated, but I could still understand if it rattled you.”

She retrieved the hunks of cheese and tore off three hunks of bread to place it upon. Varric had kindly sliced up the summer sausage. Beer usually went far better with this sort of meal, but the beer in Haven left much to be desired. She was biased, of course, as their barley and hops fields in Amreth had lead to the creation of a master brewer’s guild. It was a fact that never failed to entertain her mother.  _ Beer,  _ she always laughed, _ of course your father would make his fortune through beer.  _

Still, the sweetness of the port made nice company with the spice of the sausage and the sharpness of the cheese. It would do. Evelyn smiled at her two odd companions, who had become such dear friends in such short time. “If I let the long list of people who wanted to throttle me get to me, I’d never get out of bed.” 

“Gotta hand it to you, Stabs,” Varric said, “I’ve never seen anyone go toe-to-toe with both the Seeker and Curly and not so much as flinch.” 

“You don’t let Cassandra get to you, Varric.”

He laughed. “Hell I don’t. She terrifies me.” 

Evelyn snorted. “Oh, I’m positive she could take me in a fight. Cullen, too, though I’d make him work for it. Honestly, probably Leliana as well, and with her I’d never see it coming. Acknowledging it, seeing it, and knowing it means it can’t frighten me. People only fear the unknown.” 

“Uh-huh,” Varric replied skeptically. “Yeah. Sure. Also spiders.” 

“Remind us not to bring you to the Storm Coast, then,” Solas drawled. “Spiders  _ and _ deepstalkers.”

Varric made a face. “Oh, my favorites.”

“Hmm,” Evelyn agreed. “Don’t forget the occasional darkspawn, reportedly.” 

“Which reminds me,” Varric said, “how’s that Grey Warden of yours settling in?”

She finished chewing before responding. “Blackwall? Fine, I think. Odd sort. Somehow straightforward and easy to read yet completely mysterious at the same time.” 

Solas tried and failed to keep the disdain from his face. He did not care for the Grey Warden order, but she’d never been able to weasel out exactly why. He thought them arrogant and toying with forces they didn’t understand, but she’d only argued that  _ no one _ really understood the Blight and that at least the Wardens were trying. He’d retreated from the argument with an exasperated sigh, but largely dropped the subject. “The Wardens often conscript people with unsavory pasts, so I understand.” 

“Hmm,” she grunted in agreement. “I suppose that’s it, but...I don’t know.”

“You’re just mad your flirting didn’t get you anywhere, Stabs.”

She winked at Varric. “Oh, it got a response, just not the response I was hoping for. For all his gruff warrior exterior, that one...he’s still waters.”

“Still waters?” Varric asked.

“They run deep,” Solas responded. “That is the saying, is it not?” He took another piece of sausage from the offered platter. Evelyn pushed the plate of half-melted cheese closer, and he rolled his eyes but partook anyway. 

She laughed as his expression showed surprised enjoyment. “Yes, it is. And he looks at me like they all do. If I want anything, it’s something quick and dirty that’ll leave me walking funny for days. Not feelings.” 

Solas choked on his port. “At least,” he drawled once he’d recovered, to Varric’s roaring laughter, “at least you’re honest. I see no point in physicality without any emotional attachment, personally. ‘Twould be akin to eating that morning gruel the Iron Bull favors; nourishing, one supposes, but hardly satisfying.” 

They both looked curiously at Varric, who cleared his throat. “Listen, I’m taken. Bianca’s a jealous girlfriend.” 

Evelyn snorted. “What you and your crossbow do in your spare time is your business, friend.” She raised her glass. “Sometimes, you just need to eat something so you can think past the hunger. That’s perhaps the one aspect of the Qun I could agree with.” 

The evening descended into a more philosophical discussion of the Qun, with Varric’s interspersed comments about his experience with the Qunari in Kirkwall. It shifted into blood magic, and then Evelyn finally got her discussion on the subject with Solas, which was absolutely fascinating. Even Varric was open to the elf’s opinions, though again his experience was shaped by Kirkwall and the havoc there. That in itself led to another discussion about all of the underlying tensions in the city, but rounded out with Varric’s delightful tales of his friends. 

By the time they’d finished the bottle of port, it had grown quite late. Varric and Solas excused themselves, and Evelyn scooted her bed closer to the hearth. She lay watching the flickering embers, and tried very, very hard not to think about all of the responsibilities that now rested at her feet. 

…

  
  


As anticipated, apologies were made for outbursts of temper. Evelyn gave Cullen a few rounds in the training ring to work out his irritation. If it gave her a better view of how his muscles moved, she told herself it was purely professional curiosity over someone who was clearly a better fighter. 

She did not offer the same to Cassandra, but thoroughly enjoyed watching the Seeker trounce the Commander. The rueful smile on his face made a few appearances in a rather heated dream that night, but she slapped cold water on her face and sternly told herself to get over it in the morning. Blackwall might have been a disappointment on the bed front, but there were plenty of cocks out there, and one of them had to be attached to someone who would be discreet and didn’t look at her like she was made of silverite and gold. 

For the moment, it was back to the training ring. The Iron Bull was a handy sparring partner, and he clearly read what was bothering her. He’d offered, lightly, but truth be told she knew she really, really shouldn’t bed anyone she’d be fighting with. Even though she and Eamric had been part of the same mercenary company, and they’d both agreed that emotions weren’t involved, he’d still gotten protective at times. Bull was protective of his Chargers, and she didn’t need that hanging over her. 

He’d given her a wry smile and followed her gaze to where Cullen was correcting a recruit’s posture. “Sure, Boss. That one’ll be a tough nut to crack, instead, but maybe you like the challenge?”

“The only challenge I want right now,” she growled back, tearing her traitorous eyes away, “is to get you to watch your Maker-damned right.” She lunged at him and he countered, slower than his left, but faster than she anticipated and tripped her up.

“Watch those pitfalls, Boss.” 

“I hate you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Ooo,” came a chirpy voice, “is it beat up on Hairy time already? Hang on, let me get some knives, I want to practice close quarters again.”

“You mean you want to grab her tits again.”

“Something in it for everyone, yeah?”

“I hate all of you.” 

Bull laughed. “Get your shield up, Boss. It’s two on one time.”

Evelyn lurched to her feet and grumbled. “This is significantly less fun than the alternative threesome.” 

“Is that any way for the Herald of Andraste to talk?” Bull countered lowly. 

She rolled her eyes and batted Sera’s attempted sneak attack off easily. “Gonna be harder than that to get in my head this time. Come on, then.” 

He countered with a joke about hardness, but Evelyn let it slide in one ear and out the other. One inhale and one slow exhale as she ducked his dulled blade had her step into the killing calm. Or close to. She held back a little, focused not on lethality but on movement. Their voices vanished, slipping into nonsense her mind did not bother to translate into words, but only sounds that told her distance and direction. It mixed with the other sounds - blades slicing through air, huffed breaths, ruffled cloth and creaking leather, the soft grind of packed dirt - into a song that painted everything in her mind as clear as though she had more than simply two eyes. 

By the time they were done, she’d dispatched not only The Iron Bull and Sera, but Blackwall and Varric as well, who had been drawn into the fray at some point. Bull held a cloth to a bleeding nose, and Sera hunched over wheezing, with Solas’s hand on her back. Varric lay beneath her right boot and Blackwall was unconscious. 

Quite a crowd had gathered, and she saw Cassandra trade a long look with Cullen before approving applause broke out. 

Solas looked over at her as she eased her foot up and helped up Varric. “That was...impressive, Lethallan. You have very nearly mastered the technique, as far as I can tell, which I would have thought impossible for either a human or a non-mage.” 

She frowned. It  _ had  _ seemed different that time. Easier, more reflexive. She’d almost felt as though she’d stepped outside of her physical body and battled with her mind as well as her movements. “I wish I had Mirana here,” she said, taking a seat beside Sera. Solas’s healing magic hummed in the air, and she wondered why he was the only one she ever felt casting. Proximity and familiarity, most likely, she thought. 

Solas patted Sera and she shot to her feet, mumbling a somewhat polite thank-you, surprisingly. She hated both mages and “elfy elves”, and generally disliked most men on principle, so it was rare to see her voluntarily in Solas’s company. He was one of the better healers, though. Sera darted a look at Evelyn. “Next time, yeah, Hairy? Just...less scary on us, okay?”

Evelyn winced. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to hit you that hard. I was trying to hold back.”

Sera shuddered. “If that’s you holding back, remind me never to piss you off.” 

She wandered off, and Evelyn caught the appraising looks from her companions. Solas snorted gently and tilted up her face with a finger under her chin. His magic settled on her, and began healing cuts she didn’t realize she had. It itched and she grumbled. “Perhaps,” he said, “it works to your advantage to be sexually stifled?”

She hissed as the magic snapped something in her wrist back into place. “Stop trying to distract me from pain. It doesn’t work.”

He chuckled lowly. “Clearly. However, it’s quite obvious that something has shifted. I’ve not seen you fight that effectively before.”

“I’ve not needed to outpace my thoughts so badly before,” she answered. “It’s not the frustration; that’s just a minor irritant. It’s everything else.” 

He sat down beside her. “It is a heavy burden that many have placed on your shoulders, but I believe you can bear it.” 

“I can,” she said firmly, and he smiled. “I will.” 

…

  
  


“What a sterling invitation,” Evelyn murmured, reading over Alexius’s letter. 

Leliana smiled. “I’m fairly certain he wants to kill you.” 

“Redcliffe Castle offers him myriad opportunities to do so.” Cullen crossed his arms and stared down at the map. “Therinfal Redoubt is no better, to be honest, but there at least we might have the cover of some nobility. I can’t march an army on either one.” 

“All of our options are less than ideal,” Cassandra commented. 

Evelyn leaned on the makeshift war table and frowned in thought. “Why does it have to be an either-or option? There must be a way I’m not seeing to get both of them on our side. The goal of the Conclave was peace between the sides, after all. If Divine Justinia saw a path, there  _ must _ be one.” 

Cassandra sighed. “I fear that path died with Justinia.” 

Evelyn exhaled, thoughts starting to coalesce in her mind. “I have some ideas. Listen first,” she said, interrupting Cullen, “argue later.” 

He snorted. “As you wish, Herald.” 

She spared him only a momentary look of reproach, which he didn’t even bat an eyelash at, before returning her gaze to the map. “First, I need to know...there must be ways into both fortresses. Secret entrances. Sewers, water drains, anything.” 

“There is a sewer main at Therinfal,” Cassandra conceded. “It is distinctly unpleasant, but I’ve snuck through it before - long story, don’t ask.” 

Leliana frowned. “Redcliffe Castle has a secret tunnel, but it’s narrow and winding. Part of it might be caved in now, but it’s possible.” 

“All right, then,” Evelyn responded, “now we’re getting somewhere.” 

“Where, precisely?” Cullen asked, but when she looked up at him, she could see the beginnings of interest stir in his expression. 

“It’s a risk,” she said, and ignored his second snort, “but if you can spare a Templar or two, we need eyes inside Therinfal Redoubt. We need rumors to start about the Lord Seeker’s instability. I don’t know that we can change his mind, and I don’t know that we want to. A man like that doesn’t concede control, and the Inquisition can’t afford zealotted bigotry. I want to leech off as many Templars as we can, weaken his overall numbers so that he must concede.” 

Josephine practically purred. “I have just the people that can provide a distraction. Orlais is fuming, and if enough of the nobility gather together, he will have to take notice. Once our agents are inside, it’s an easy task to weaken them from the outside.” 

Cullen looked at her appraisingly. “I like it. Less direct that I’d have gone with, but damned clever. As for Redcliffe...you’re considering taking the bait while Leliana’s agents utilize the tunnel?”

“It’s no less a risk, but one I must take personally. Cassandra, what do you think?” 

The Seeker nodded her agreement. “I can provide agents with a map of Therinfal Redoubt easily enough. Cullen, can you handpick some Templars? Captain Rylen is too recognizable, but perhaps that young Orlesian girl and her friend?”

Before Cullen could respond, the war room door opened and, of all people, Dorian Pavus strode in. “Not too late to the party, I hope,” the Tevinter mage drawled, sizing the room up as the guard hastily explained who he was and what he wanted. They clearly recognized him from Evelyn’s detailed report, however, considering the fact that everyone’s weapons remained sheathed. “My dear Herald, you are not considering accepting Alexius’s invitation without me?” 

“The thought had occurred, Master Pavus, but I’m not one to turn down an advantage. Friends?” she asked, glancing around at the rest of the council. Cullen looked the most wary, but then, he usually did. They all nodded their agreement, however tacit. 

“Delightful,” Pavus crowed. “I do so love the smell of righteous fury in the morning.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was SO ANNOYED that I couldn't play both the mages and the Templars against each other for my benefit in the game. I mean, I get it. But c'monnnnnnn. 
> 
> The end result of this isn't going to be too far off how it works out in the game, though.


	13. The World Gone Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future, as glimpsed in Hushed Whispers.

To say things did not go according to plan would have been a vast understatement, she reflected bitterly.

Through everything, Evelyn held her composure. This utter madness, the horror of it. Being enveloped by magic that tore at the very core of her, tossed about in time like a sea-battered ship. The sickening song of red lyrium  _ everywhere _ . 

Both she and Dorian held themselves together. In nearly no time at all, it felt as though they were long experienced companions. She could see beneath his flippant humor the strain and fear, and she knew the same was in her own face. Quick touches: a hand on the shoulder, a brief brushing of fingertips, slight pressure on the back. These helped them stay grounded, reminded in each other’s presence that no, they were not going mad.

The world had gone mad. 

“There must be a way out of this labyrinth,” she hissed. Her study of Redcliffe Castle had proved useless. Corridors had been shifted and moved by some paranoid application of magic, broken walls and debris-blocked doors cutting them off and boxing them in. Corpses and bones and remnants of blood magic rituals everywhere. She felt sick, and it wasn’t entirely the heavy buzz of lyrium in the air. 

By the third corpse with spikes of lyrium jutting out of it, she knew there was more at work here. “Is it...did it infect them or was it used to kill them or…?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian answered. “But it’s growing out of the walls, too. It’s giving me quite the headache, but worse, it’s making my casting unstable, I think.” 

“We don’t know how it affects regular blue lyrium, so maybe conserve your strength?”

He nodded his agreement as she finished picking the lock on another heavy wood door. It groaned open and she stood, catching the edge of a whisper of sound. A voice, humming a mournful song that sent shivers through her in its almost ancient sadness. “Solas!” she called, darting into the hallway that was lined with dark cells. 

A hiss of breath. “Impossible,” came a hoarse voice. 

He stood, a red haze around him, eyes almost glowing red and his face...a mark, cracked and glistening in the flickering torch light. Red lyrium. “Solas, what happened? How long?”

To his confused look, Dorian explained how they’d been thrown in time when he interrupted Alexius’s spell. Solas stared hard at them both. “Then you can go back. You can undo this. This should never have happened, this is an abomination that must never come to pass. Please…” 

She hurriedly picked the lock on his cell and reached out to touch him, but he pulled away. “You look terrible, is there nothing I can do?” she asked.

“I am dying, but no matter. What do you need, Master Pavus?”

“The amulet Alexius was using.” 

“He will still have it with him,” Solas commented. “There may be more of us here, we should look. The Venatori took few prisoners, and most are dead, but some they’ve tortured and experimented with.”

“The red lyrium?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, recovering a discarded staff from a dead mage in the corridor. They spread out, looking for doors that led to more prison cells. “It’s a vast source of the Elder One’s power. That and stolen magics from a hundred different civilizations. He is carrion, but powerful carrion. We never saw it coming, it happened so quickly. Empress Celene was assassinated, throwing Orlais into a chaos in which Tevinter marched with the Venatori at their head, and a demon army burning the land in its front. Haven was sacked, most of the Inquisition slaughtered or forced into abominations.” 

He stopped, and shook his head. “It was bad. You must return. We don’t know where the demons came from, but can only assume he destabilized the Breach. Only a pocket of resistance remains here, and that in the Korcari Wilds. It is little more than bandit raids upon Venatori encampments lead by the former king of Ferelden, but their days are numbered. Come, we must move.” 

“All this, in only a year?” Dorian wondered. “What is this Elder One to command such power?”

“A scavenger,” Solas hissed, then swayed on his feet. He steadied himself against a wall and again waved Evelyn back from him. “He has not shown himself to any outside his numbers, and the tales grow larger with fear of the unknown. But whatever or whomever he is, whatever forbidden and lost magics he has reclaimed, he is dangerous and immensely powerful to a degree the world has not seen in ages beyond counting. Our only hope is to stop him before the Inquisition is destroyed.  _ You must return _ .” 

They found the Grand Enchanter, but she was too far gone to be able to help them. Evelyn saw the red lyrium growing out of her and traded a quick look with Solas before making the decision. A quick knife slash and an expression of joyous gratitude: that was all Evelyn allowed herself to process before she moved on. Dorian swore softly. 

It was Varric that almost broke her. Not Cassandra’s tearful rejoicing and worried refusal to believe this was anything other than a dream or hallucination. Not Solas’s continued stumbling and obvious pain. Not even Leliana, a husk of herself with only ruthlessness and vicious, cold hatred left to her. It was Varric. 

He smiled. 

There was so much pain, so much fear in him. But he smiled, and he cracked a joke and he put on the bravest, most nonchalant face he could, even as the red lyrium had obviously taken hold in him. Even after everything it had done to his brother, everything he had told her in guilt-ridden sadness as they played listless hand after hand of Wicked Grace in the tavern. His life had changed, and horribly so, after that ill-fated expedition to the Deep Roads: cracks in his life that he’d long ignored broken open, consequences spilling out onto his dearest friends. 

But Varric wasn’t broken. He had never broken. And neither could she. 

They were quickly surrounded in the main hall, and while Leliana fought through her pain, the other three were shadows of their former selves. Varric had recovered a passable enough crossbow from the barracks, and proved himself adept at knife-throwing, but he was not as fast as she knew he could be. Cassandra was still a terror, but even she lagged, and using her silencing ability left her staggering and panting. 

The mages were stronger, but their powers were unstable and unpredictable in strength, and both of them lacked their usual reserve of energy. Dorian still had to keep the bulk of his power in reserve, which left Solas occupied largely with defensive magic. 

One breath. Two. In. Out. 

Kill. 

She was steel, she was death.  _ The body is a weapon _ .  _ Step outside of it and command it _ . Every breath was deliberate, movements fluid and natural. Senses reached outside of herself to predict where the blades would fall, where the fire would strike, the Fear demon Fade-step. The near-silent rustle of a mage’s grimoire as a page turned to find the right glyph was met instantaneously with a knife in the throat. Blades crossed and drove down before the puddle of Fade shadow appeared, decapitating the Fear demon as it popped up. 

The last enemy fell before her and she stood in the middle of the hall, awareness rushing back in. Evelyn kept her posture in battle readiness, adjusting her grip on the leather-wrapped hilt as she flicked blood from the left-hand blade. Dorian darted ahead of her to the door. “Bring those shards we found,” he called. “I think they open the door.” 

Cassandra had insisted on holding them, as she was already dying of lyrium poisoning. “You okay, Stabs?” Varric asked softly as Cassandra and Leliana joined Dorian at the door. 

She couldn’t answer him. She could not, would not break. 

Evelyn didn’t bother sheathing her swords as Dorian gave a triumphant whoop and the enchanted door swung open. She stepped ahead of them all without a backwards glance and ignored any calls after her. A cold, deadly fury had settled in the very core of her. The world might once have feared Andraste and the wrath of the Maker, but by the end of this, by all the gods humans that had ever been worshipped,  _ they would fear her more.  _

Dorian swore viciously as they entered the courtyard and found themselves in the very midst of a near worldwide breach in the Veil. It was unstable, deadly. Rifts formed, closed, and reformed, spirits yanked through and deformed by the insanity of it into demons. Evelyn could hear him discuss it with Solas, decipher what he meant by the instability caused by repeated attempts at time magic, the misalignment of the Fade with the physical world. 

As a rift opened above their heads, she found that she simply just did not care, and flung the magic of the Anchor on her hand at the rift with every ounce of anger in her bones. It opened wider for a moment and sucked all unfortunate demons in its vicinity back into it before slamming closed. 

It hurt like hell and green light shot through the veins in her arm in response. She ignored it. Pain meant power, then, here where the Veil had all but snapped and broken? Fine. She would stay alive to see this done, see that this never came to pass, but she’d be damned if a little agony would slow her down. 

She would not -  _ would not _ \- be the sole survivor once more in a world gone to ashes around her.

Evelyn cut her way through any enemy in their path, any that Leliana’s arrows did not first reach. Dorian, Solas, and Varric trailed behind them, drawn in the wake of their dark deadliness. The party had largely fallen silent, even Dorian, save for murmurs about things that had happened, what they could do once back to stop it all. 

Not once did anyone question whether or not they would get back. But Evelyn knew full damn well that if Dorian failed, then she would die taking down this Elder One, no matter how powerful. This Anchor, as Alexius had named it, affected the Fade, it pulled on it. She hadn’t been able to stay conscious long enough to close the Breach back in Haven alone, but here where the Veil was already unstable and threadbare, and in some places gone entirely? There had to be power there to rival the Conclave explosion. 

Enough to kill a god, she’d bet. 

When they found Alexius, he was a broken man crying over the frail form of what had once been his son. Horror settled in Evelyn’s stomach as she realized what was wrong with Felix, and what the Magister had done to selfishly hold on to his son. “The Blight,” she breathed. 

Leliana had her knife at Felix’s neck before Evelyn could blink, and for a moment it was not the boy, but Katy. She felt that sharp twist of guilt and terror, but Alexius’s cries brought her back, and she looked at Felix. Really looked. 

“This isn’t living, Alexius,” she said, and nodded to Leliana. Pieces of what they’d gleaned settled together in her mind, and Evelyn knew that Leliana’s torture had largely been about saving Felix. Everything had been about saving Felix. But Felix was long dead, and all the Magister had kept alive was a walking shell that had once held his son, soul long consumed by the hideous magic of the Blight. 

Alexius, predictably, with nothing left to lose, lost his mind. He howled and raged and pulled demons out of rifts to fling at them. Evelyn fought through them all and drove her fury into the Magister, driving a blade deep into his midsection and twisting. He spat blood at her, but she did not blink as she shoved him backward and pinned him to a pillar. 

“Who is this Elder One?” she asked calmly, giving the blade another twist. “What does he want with me? Give me a name.” 

“No name,” he gasped, “no time, Little Thief.”

Before she could react, he’d drawn a small dagger from his belt and slit his own throat. She flinched back as the blood pumped out of the wound once, twice, three times, and then stilled to oozing. Evelyn grunted and pulled out her short sword from his rib cage. She let the body fall to the floor, then bent over and retrieved the amulet Dorian needed and tossed it to him, not bothering to wipe the blood from it. They were all covered in it anyway, what did more matter now? 

“Give me an hour,” Dorian said, hefting the amulet, “I need to work out the spell he used.” 

Evelyn nodded but Leliana protested. “Impossible, you must go now.” 

Dorian looked ready to protest but an unholy, horrific screech cut them off. The formerly unbreachable walls of Redcliffe Castle shuddered as a force descended on the exterior with terrifying strength. Roars could be heard even through the thick stone. “The Elder One. He’s here,” Leliana stated.

Solas, Cassandra, and Varric exchanged looks that Evelyn could read all to well. “No…” she whispered, moving as though to stop them, to argue that this wasn’t the answer. They did not need to sacrifice themselves, but what could they do? Come back with her? They were already there, were they not, and this was to be erased from time itself. 

That didn’t make it hurt any less when Varric smiled again, and said, “Good luck, Stabs. I believe in you.” 

Evelyn looked to Solas, but knew there was nothing she could say. “We are already dead, Lethallan,” he told her. “We will buy you what time we can.” 

Cassandra only nodded to her, half bowing with a deep respect, her face tight with hope and a faith that Evelyn could never, ever hope to fulfill. Didn’t the Seeker know? Could she not see that resting all hope for Thedas on Evelyn’s shoulders was sheer folly? She could not do this.

She  _ must _ do this.

Watching them turn and walk out of the great room, hearing the heavy wooden bar fall across the door in their wake, seeing Leliana prep her arrows...if they survived this, Evelyn knew she would have an entirely new brace of nightmares. It hurt, more than any physical pain she’d ever known...hearing the sounds of violence, knowing what it was doing to her friends, to the strange trio that had come to mean as much as family.

They shouldn’t be out there. They shouldn’t be protecting her, she wasn’t worth it. She should be protecting them, that was her sole purpose, that was the point of what was left of her life. 

The heavy oak doors all but splintered under the force assaulting it, and a flood of demons and soldiers entered. Red lyrium spiked off armor, casting everything in a terrible red glow. Solas’s broken body was tossed aside like a child’s doll by a Pride demon, the headless form of Varric dragged behind another. Cassandra still fought, buying Leliana time to dispatch some with her arrows, slowing the rolling tide. 

But soon the Seeker caught a sword to her side, then another to her neck, severing her head with a force that sent it flying. For a horrible, horrible moment, Evelyn felt the sight of the Seeker’s face, frozen in righteous fury as it tumbled to the ground, cement itself in her memory. 

Leliana’s arrows ran out. 

Evelyn could feel the crackle of Dorian’s magic behind her, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. She knew only anger and helpless rage and  _ she would kill them all, so help her _ …

Dorian grabbed her arm in an iron grip and she turned on him, snarling. “If you move, we all die!” he yelled at her over the fray.

It was enough to confuse her until at last he had the portal open and pulled her through. 

…

Evelyn barely had time to process Dorian’s success as the great room materialized around them, just as they had left it. Cassandra, Solas, Varric, and the advance Inquisition scouts, all drawing weapons as though everything had just happened. As though they had just disappeared.

She supposed they had. 

The fury left her in a rush, and she felt nothing but exhaustion. Dorian had rounded on Alexius, who fell to the floor in crumpled defeat. She could feel a lingering sting in the air that she’d come to associate with Cassandra’s silencing ability. It made her marked hand itch. 

“It’s over,” she said simply, whether to the Magister or herself, she was unsure. “Chain him. We’ll give him to Val Royeaux as a present to the Chantry. Or to the King of Ferelden as a hostile enemy. Either way, let the diplomats work it out.” 

The scouts rushed to obey, and Evelyn turned to her friends. Fortunately, she was simply too tired in the aftermath of everything to feel much beyond relief. And disbelief. Was this all real? 

All three were eyeing her warily, and she realized she was all but covered in blood and gore. “What,” Varric asked, “in the shit happened to you?”

“It’s a long story.” 

“As an expert on stories, you usually start at the beginning, Stabs.” 

Dorian joined them as soon as he was satisfied that Alexius was properly contained. “Glad that’s over with,” he commented before Evelyn could answer Varric. 

Commotion rang out from the hall and they all turned to face the door as a company of armored guards in Ferelden livery marched in. “Or not,” Dorian added under his breath. 

King Alistair entered the room, tightly controlled anger outlining every movement. She’d recognize him anywhere, though she doubted he remembered the twelve-year-old girl he and his queen had once helped escape a stifled ball. He’d formed the standard in her mind of what a nobleman should be, not the perfumed and be-silked suitors her uncle kept lining up.

_ Grey Wardens on the throne. What is the world coming to? _

_ He’s a bastard, Mother, should that not take priority? _

_ Most rulers are bastards, Alric, by birth or by nature. That should hardly matter. Your brothers would have me believe you are no different, after all.  _

Reluctantly, she pulled her tired mind back from the past and focused on the present, where King Alistair was verbally chewing a hole in the Grand Enchanter’s hide. One would have thought she was tired of time travel, Evelyn thought wryly, even in her own mind. “Your Majesty,” Evelyn spoke, intervening and gaining everyone’s attention.

The king’s eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline as he took in Evelyn’s bedraggled and blood-splattered state. She ignored it and held herself with every ounce of Grand-mère Estelle’s steel spine and grace, as though he were the odd one for not being soaked in blood and gore. It effectively took the wind right out of his sails, and if it were any other time than now, she might be tempted to see if she could actually convince him it was a new Free Marcher fashion. 

“What happened here was unacceptable, to say the least, I agree. We shall retire from Redcliffe Village immediately, and the mages will come with the Inquisition for now until their future can be settled in a more determined fashion. Please accept all apologies to your uncle the Arl, and our ambassador will be in touch with him regarding any reparations to be made to the Arling from damages caused by violence and displacement here. I do hope,” she added pointedly, “that the Arl and the Crown recognize the efforts Inquisition soldiers have made on behalf of the subjects and refugees of Redcliffe Arling in good faith, and allow such efforts to continue. We care only about peace, Your Highness.” 

King Alistair inclined his head. “So noted, and I thank you, Lady Trevelyan. I see the years have not taught you to stay out of trouble, though it appears you’ve found significantly more danger than an angry grandmother.” 

“In her defense, Your Majesty, I did steal all the canapés.” 

“A terrible crime, indeed,” the king agreed, and she was inwardly relieved to see him relax a little. Many underestimated the man, but she’d seen him spar with his retinue that summer of the ball in Ostwick, and he was a damn good fighter that had the easy respect of his soldiers. To say nothing of the steel reserve it took to face down something as horrifying as an Archdemon was said to be and still live to tell the tale. “Speaking of terrible crimes…?”

He gestured to where the Inquisition forces held the magister. “All yours, Your Majesty,” she replied with an incline of her head. “I believe you are well acquainted with Sister Nightingale, so all I will ask is that you kindly forward any information that is of interest to the Inquisition to her.” 

“A fair bargain, my lady, especially as you’ve effectively and silently dealt with this threat. The Inquisition has my gratitude, but I am afraid my patience with the mages is at an end. I would recommend they depart within the week so that we might resettle the rightful residents of the village, and begin aiding the refugees at the Crossroads.” 

“Agreed, Your Majesty. I would offer my hand to shake, but…”

“Ah, yes, well. The thought is appreciated, my lady. Safe travels, and we will be in touch.” 

The king motioned for his soldiers to take Alexius, and they departed the hall in a clatter of mail and whispers. Varric gave her a sidelong look. “Canapés?”

It was almost too much, that smile he gave her. Too like that dark future…

“Herald,” spoke the Grand Enchanter, and Evelyn turned to face her, smoothing her expression. “I thank you for your intervention with the king. I...we are grateful for the assistance of the Inquisition, and I recognize that we have little choice but to follow you. I would ask, however…”

“You want the terms?” Evelyn asked, tired of diplomacy.

Cassandra approached but before she could open her mouth to speak, Evelyn cut her off. “There are no terms, Grand Enchanter. You will join us as allies or you will go your separate way with no aid from the Inquisition. We are not Tevinter,” she added, with a pointed look at Cassandra, “and nor are we the Chantry. The Inquisition asks for alliance, not slavery, or  _ it does not deserve to exist _ .” 

Stunned silence followed her declaration, but she did not allow any opposition. They wanted a Herald of Andraste? Then this is what they damn well got. 

“Do we have an alliance, Grand Enchanter?”

“We do, Herald of Andraste. I only hope the rest of your organization will honor it.” 

“They will,” she said, again with a stern look at Cassandra, who looked angry enough to spit nails. “They must, or all is lost. We will see you at Haven. We depart tonight, but I would strongly recommend sending a few advance representatives with us.” 

“I will gather some together,” she said, and turned on her heel. 

When it was only the Inquisition remaining, Cassandra whirled around in fury. “What in the Maker’s name do you think you are doing?”

“More importantly,” Solas cut in with irritation, “what happened to you?” 

“That is hardly more important-”

“-I disagree-”

“Seeker, hold on, Chuckles has a-”

“-does not concern you, Varric-”

“-just hear her out-”

“Or you, Tevinter-”

“ENOUGH,” Evelyn roared, cutting them all off. “I have just gotten thrown by magic a year into the future where I - we, the Inquisition - failed and the world was coming apart at the seams in the most horrific ways imaginable.” She stared down each of them, and they all fell silent. Dorian closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath, fighting past his own discomfort with what they’d seen. 

“Dorian,” she said to Cassandra, “gets a concern, as do Solas and Varric, and you. This concerns  _ all of us _ . We cannot have weakness, we must be united. All of us, all Thedas, must stand together or the world will fall, Seeker. I will not have angry mages plotting my downfall, and I will not be part of an organization that tears people away from their families and hides them in shame like the Circle did. This is not a perfect answer, but by the Maker’s grace, it is a  _ start _ .” 

She shook her head, far too close to losing all grip on her emotions for her own comfort. She wanted to say more, wanted to plead, but all four of them were staring at her and she simply couldn’t. 

Evelyn turned on her heel and left.

…

A soft knock sounded and Evelyn called out for the person to enter, not bothering to turn around. She half-expected Varric, but it was a less familiar footfall. “Seeker,” she greeted. 

Cassandra took a seat next to her on the rug by inn’s hearthfire. She’d stripped off her armor, but still wore supple fighting leathers. Evelyn, in contrast, hadn’t bothered to move out of her bath linens, wet hair only having been half-heartedly combed through as it dried by the fire. ‘

“You never sit on chairs when you are alone,” Cassandra commented. “Always by the fire. Is it so cold to you here in Ferelden? I suppose I’m used to it.” 

“It’s more comfort than warmth. For a moment, I can be small again. Just me. No burdens, no expectations.” 

Cassandra gave her a half-smile. “I am relieved that you’re willing to speak with me. I reacted poorly before.” 

“So did I.” 

The Seeker sat silently, staring into the dancing flames. “You are right.”

Evelyn lifted an eyebrow. “I know.” Cassandra snorted. “But I also know that it isn’t easy. Magic is dangerous. Mages are dangerous. We’ve all spent our lives hearing just how much they are to be feared from the Chantry. I don’t think the Chantry is evil, but I think many who have held power in the institution have only had faith and interest in power, not in what’s right, what’s fair. Certainly not on what Andraste herself wanted.” 

“And you know that now, do you?” Cassandra asked, only partially sardonic. The rest of her voice was curious. 

Evelyn thought for a moment. “I truly have no memory, still, of what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I cannot believe that Andraste herself manifested and handed me out of the Fade. That is the convenient tale that will be told generations, ages, from now, by some village Chantry sister to a curious child. The truth is always more complex. But if you’re asking me if I believe that what I’m doing, what I’m fighting for, what I am determined to bring to pass...if that is something Andraste might also fight for were she here?” She sighed. “I don’t know, Cassandra, none of us do. But she fought injustice, and that is the very least any of us can do in her name.” 

Cassandra said nothing for a long time. After a few minutes, she stirred and motioned for Evelyn to hand her the comb that lay ignored. She did so, and the Seeker proceeded to gently untangle the knots from Evelyn’s wet hair. “This future you saw...I know the outline of it from Dorian. It sounds…” She paused, then resumed combing. “I understand, Evelyn.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, throat uncomfortably tight. In her mind’s eye, she could see the Seeker’s severed head and she shuddered. The tears finally came, then. 

To be held while she cried was a comfort Evelyn had not known, had not allowed herself to know, since she was a small child. All the hurt, the pain, the fear, the horror...it came out in ugly, gasping sobs. Cassandra held her firmly and murmured for her to let it out, to not keep it in. 

After what felt like an eternity, it finally faded and she could at last draw steady breath. Cassandra retrieved a robe and draped it around Evelyn’s shoulders. She had not realized just how cold she’d grown. Cassandra then poured them each a small glass of the inn’s standard red table wine and rejoined her. “Change is difficult,” the Seeker said, but then offered Evelyn a wry smile. “Yet, I am now on a first name basis with a noble mage from Tevinter, so who can say what is next for us all?”

Evelyn laughed. 

  
  



	14. We Will Stand With You, Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen's dreams are rarely untroubled, but now his mind has developed an entirely new inappropriate way to torment him. Meanwhile, Evelyn fights out her fears and finally faces the hole in the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene in the prologue can be considered a bridge between the last chapter and where this picks up. The advisors have already voiced their dissenting opinion, but the mages are settling in better than expected. And Cullen has unfortunately started to notice more of the Herald than a colleague and comrade in arms.

The dreams of Cullen Rutherford were rarely peaceful. If he were truly lucky, he would not recall them when he woke, but those mornings were far more rare without lyrium. It seemed odd to be grateful for any side effects from the lyrium withdrawal, but thus far the constant battle with exhaustion and pain had stifled any sexual urges. 

It had been sort of a blessing. He could ill afford either the time or the gossip around any sort of dalliance, and even less could he afford to be distracted from his duties. It was a heavy responsibility, and growing more so by the day. He would not fail at this. He could not fail. 

And the worst dreams were the Desire demon, after all. 

Without the banal distraction of a more normal - and frankly, he could admit, more healthy - physical need, his mind had blessedly steered clear of those horrific memories. He had never given in, not in fact, he’d known the torment for what it was. But in dreams, oh his hungry, lonely dreams...he was never sure which felt worse: the crush of failure or the embarrassment when he awoke. 

So when he woke to the sunrise in his face and raging erection, it was a bit of a disappointment. 

He tried to will it down so he could get dressed and get started, but after ten minutes of frantically conjuring the least sexy thoughts he could think, nothing worked. Cullen ran his hands over his face and grumbled to himself. He may be a long way from the shame at his need brought by the Chantry teachings of his youth, but it was simply a waste of time that was far better spent productively. 

It was a frustratingly short search through his memories to find something worthwhile. He hadn’t so much as noticed a body in a long time in any way that didn’t relate to how it held a shield. So much of his past was tied up in bad memories that he tried to avoid, too, that it was like searching through a field full of traps.   


He could remember a sweet-faced farm girl before he took his vows who showed him just what an enterprising soul could do with a tongue. A handful of blushing compatriots in the Order when out on a practice tracking session, mostly men but a few women who hadn’t minded bathing together in the small inns. An enterprising young woman that he was fairly certain Hawke had paid handsomely to make a house call. He’d always preferred the soft roundness of a woman’s body, though he hadn’t turned down the few opportunities here and there to trade hands and mouths with another man. The Order was overwhelmingly male, after all, and everyone got a little jumpy from time to time, even with the lyrium keeping the body steady.

Cullen sighed. It had been, what, four, five years since he’d been with anyone? Long before those final tense days in Kirkwall, back when he thought everything could still work out. For the first time in several years, he found himself genuinely missing the warmth of a body pressed against his own, soft cries of pleasure, whispered kindnesses, slow and deliberate explorations. He’d had so little of it, known it could never fit into his life, but...

Auburn hair, glowing in the midday sun, weak as it was in the mountains. Pale blue eyes that winked with mischief. Sweat dripping down that long neck, wisps of hair sticking there that came loose from her braid. Those long limbs, so graceful in combat, the surprising strength of her strikes, the pant of her breath against his face. 

_ Evelyn _ .

Cullen swore roundly as he came, and came  _ hard _ . It had been a while, after all, but he was not prepared for the strength of the pleasure that curled through him. Her face hovered in his thoughts and he groaned, throwing his left arm over his face while his right hand coaxed the last bit of pleasurable shivers out of himself. 

He dropped his arm from his face, instead resting the back of his head on his forearm as he stared up at his cabin ceiling. He ought to feel ashamed of himself, but his mind was still conjuring images of Lady Trevelyan’s face and body in all sorts of delightfully compromising and inappropriate ways. Cullen held still and let the images float past, refusing to engage with his thoughts until they’d settled down. 

Rolling over halfway, he fumbled for his discarded bath linens from the previous evening and cleaned himself off. They were wet and cold, which was considerably unpleasant. No less than he deserved, though, for fantasizing about the  _ Herald of Andraste _ , he reflected. If he were honest with himself, he rarely thought about her in that reverant light many of their soldiers did. The title of Herald had simply become another title to him, like Captain or Commander or Seeker. 

But if she wasn’t the Herald of Andraste in the literal sense, she was certainly a herald of change. 

He should absolutely not be thinking of her in the way that he just had, however. But,  _ Maker’s breath _ , she was beautiful. The thought had crept into his head the day before as he heard her laugh, and it had resolutely, annoyingly stuck. He’d noticed before, of course. He wasn’t blind. It had only been in passing, though; simple acknowledgements that her hair was lovely shade between deep, warm brown and reddish gold, that she had a wonderful smile, that those eyes could knock a grown man off his feet if she had a mind. Simple details, catalogued in his mind as he catalogued everything, from threat to asset. 

Cullen hadn’t thought of her in that light, not for himself. Had he? He didn’t think so, but then the lyrium withdrawal had fogged up so much of his senses and his feelings. Some days he felt detached from the world and felt little. Others, everything was close to the surface. Those were becoming more common as time wore on. He preferred it, honestly. Feeling completely numb was frightening; it reminded him too much of how it felt to be taking more than the usual lyrium dose when he’d first arrived in Kirkwall. 

They told him it would help with the nightmares. It had, for a time. Then he watched what his former roommate had descended into and that snapped him out of it. He would not end up like Raleigh Samson, begging on the streets of Kirkwall and selling mages to freedom or slavery for money to buy lyrium. 

And he would not end like Meredith Stannard, driven mad by hatred and power. 

Evelyn was waiting for him in the training ring when he arrived. He stifled a nervous groan and firmly pushed all thoughts of morning fantasies aside. Her hair was tightly braided, and she wore thick leathers that telegraphed her need for a fight. Wordlessly, she handed him his preferred weight of sword and shield and took her own custom-made practice blades. 

“Trade,” he told her. “If you want to really work.” He offered her the sword and shield, and she grunted and handed him the double swords.

She’d shown him the basics and while he didn’t have her dexterity with them, he was still fast and could trip her up most of the time. It wasn’t often she faced her own fighting style thrown back at her. She didn’t have the brute strength to block him effectively with the shield, but she was learning to be creative. 

Cullen lost track of time as they trained. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. It felt so good to move, mostly free of pain. Most mornings, he was grateful for the distraction from his headache and the ability to have an excuse for his wincing. Today he felt...mostly fine, considering the slump of pain he’d fallen into after his ill-considered display down in the Mire. 

He watched her movements carefully. She was less fluid with a longer sword and shield, and showed no sign of slipping into that detached, almost mindless state where she became truly dangerous. Even without it, she was a good fighter and could keep up with him well, and he realized with a start that they’d drawn a small crowd. 

He caught her thrust by crossing the blades in a way she rarely did, the metal scraping sharply as he pushed his blades down to the hilt of her sword and twisted. Evelyn let out a yelp as the force of it spun her. She’d put all her weight into the thrust, and he used it against her. 

Ah, that was how Cassandra had done it to him, only with a chainmail glove and blade instead of a crossguard pair of short swords. He grinned and dropped the blades to catch her, pulling her upright.

And terribly close to him. 

Close enough he could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his own as they both struggled to catch their breath. Their eyes had locked onto each other, and it was suddenly very difficult to look away. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to. But then the wind was driven right out of him as her shield connected with his stomach and he lost his balance. 

He hit the ground and rolled, cocking his head at her with a frown as he got to his feet. She was grinning, bowing to the audience of applauding soldiers and scouts. Evelyn tossed her shield down. “Let that be a lesson,” she all but crowed, “chivalry will get you every time.” 

Warden Blackwall fairly guffawed and shook his head at her. “Minx.” 

She winked back at him, and Cullen stifled a sudden and irrational urge to punch the man. Who the hell was he? He’d only been here a month, barely, and only gone out on assignments with the Herald twice. How would he know her well enough to call her ‘minx’? Was he in the training ring with her every morning? Puzzling out their next move over dim candlelight and cold tea and old maps? 

What a stupid thing to be jealous of, he told himself firmly. What a stupid thing to even  _ be _ jealous. He had no claim on Evelyn Trevelyan, and could not have one. That was absurd.

Blackwall generously offered to see to the recruit drills while Cullen recovered and changed clothes. The smirk on the Warden’s face told him that he knew full well how hard that last strike had hit. Cullen accepted, if only to hurry the man along on his own business. 

Evelyn smiled and passed him a waterskin. “You okay, Commander?”

He took a long swig of water. “That was low.”

One troublesome eyebrow cocked higher than the other. “Was it? I thought it was about midriff height, but if it was lower, I apologize. I would never injure a man’s favorite asset on purpose. Unless I had to. Or they were asking for it. Politely or otherwise.”

Maker’s breath, he was a grown man and not a blushing maid. Not for the first time, Cullen inwardly cursed his pale complexion. “I trust I deserve no such ire.”

“Not yet,” she murmured, turning away. “You’ll have to work harder.” 

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply took another drink of water. Witty banter had never been part of Templar training. She smiled ruefully. “If it makes you feel better, Sera’s a far dirtier fighter. She kicked me square between the legs the other day.”

He absolutely did _ not  _ need to think about anything that was between Evelyn Trevelyan’s legs. Curiosity, though, won out. “That...hurts, I take it?”

She blinked at him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Considerably. Perhaps not as much or quite the same as a man, but yes, women are known to be a bit sensitive in that region.” 

“I know  _ that _ ,” he countered, “I’m familiar with it. I just didn’t, well, I didn’t think about that in that sort of of...ah…”

Oh, Maker have  _ mercy _ , the slow smile that spread across her face was deadlier than a blade. “Really?” Was she purring? Could a human woman purr, was that even possible? He felt like a mouse caught under a barn cat’s paw. “You’re  _ familiar _ , are you?”

He shot her a look, but it only made her smile widen. “Templars don’t take vows?” she asked lightly.

Cullen turned to gather up their weapons. “There are vows.” He was not going to play this game.

Instead of helping, Evelyn perched herself on the wooden fence that encircled the training ring. “Mmm, but physical vows? Both my cousins did, if memory serves. They swore off all temptation: wine, women, song. All the things that make life worth living, if you ask me.” 

“Women make life worth living?” he asked lightly, hoping to catch her off guard and turn the conversation around before his face grew any redder.

“Sometimes,” she drawled, and the weight of heat in her voice sent shivers through his skin. That, too, was absolutely  _ not  _ something he was going to think about later, when alone. A litany of curses ran through his mind. “But that’s besides the point, Commander. I confess, I’m curious: do all Templars take vows of chastity or were my cousins simply prudes?”

Relenting a little on her attack, he noticed. He was grateful. The dulled blades slid home in the wooden rack with a satisfying, familiar noise. This was the realm he was comfortable in. Possibly the only one. 

Cullen sighed. “Some do, some don’t. It depends largely on your own faith and how that manifests in your actions. Some Templars do marry, though it requires permission. Outside of marriage, dalliance is frowned upon, as you would expect from the Chantry. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. The number of times alone I had to chase recruits down in Kirkwall’s brothels and instead found officers could testify to that.” 

Evelyn practically chortled. “That sounds like an excellent story to tell over a pint and a hand or two of Wicked Grace.” 

“I’m sure Varric was there for one of the raids,” Cullen answered, and ignored the brief look of disappointment that flitted across her face. She mastered it so quickly it might have only been in his mind. 

“I’m sure he was,” she answered, hopping down off the fence. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

She tilted her head and the mischief was back in her eyes. “Did you take a vow of chastity?”

“Why would you...that is...no,” he said, mouth stumbling over the words. “No, I’ve taken no such vows.” Not for the first time, Cullen regretted his absolute inability to tell a convincing lie. A vow would have nipped this topic in the bud, allowed him an easy out to maneuver around her flirting. 

Which was what he wanted to do, wasn’t it? 

She held his gaze, something unreadable in her expression. “Well, that’s all I wanted to know, Commander, thank you for  _ satisfy _ ing my curiosity.” Had he imagined the emphasis on ‘satisfy’? “We have a meeting in the war room later this morning. Leliana says the mages are ready and Solas has a plan.”

Cullen paused, feeling as though someone had dumped several buckets of cold water over his head. From her expression, she felt the same. Ah, so that was why she’d shown up looking for a fight. Anything to assuage the fear, to redirect the mind. He knew the tactic. It likely explained the flirting as well. 

“And you?” he asked softly. “Are you ready?”

“I must be,” she answered bleakly. “There is no other choice.” Her jaw set firmly. “I will not allow what I saw in Redcliffe to come to pass.”

He nodded. “We will stand with you, Herald.” 

“Thank you, Commander.” 

…

  
  


“I suppose it is useless to ask if you are ready, Lethallan.” 

It was difficult to pull her gaze away from the lurid green glow of the Breach. Static shocks echoed through her arm. It was a familiar enough sensation by now that she barely winced. “I left…” She paused to swallow and collect herself. “Back in Haven...there are some notes. In an everite strongbox. Josephine knows about them, as do others who are staying behind, and I sent a note to my parents just in case there’s another blast and it reaches Haven.” 

They stood before the temple mount, the best and strongest mages among the rebels arraying themselves in some arcane pattern. Vivienne kindly refrained from critiquing every order of the Grand Enchanter’s, for which Evelyn was grateful. Her nerves would not have survived an argument. 

Solas placed a hand upon her arm, sending a small sliver of healing magic through it, calming the worst of the pain. In a way, that made it all worse. 

As it turned out, she didn’t actually want to die. Color her surprised. 

“I was wrong,” she whispered to Solas. “I am afraid. What if there’s nothing? What have I left undone? What have I wasted?”

“Lethallan,” he said firmly, taking her other arm and turning her to face him, “I will do everything I can to ensure you live through this. The other mages will be focusing their power through you, but I will be focused  _ on _ you. I will anchor you as you anchor the Breach. I cannot pretend to know how the magic will or will not hurt you, but I promise you, Evelyn:  _ I will not let go _ .” 

Solas held her gaze until she was breathing steadily, and she nodded. “Thank you,” she told him in Elvhen.

“You are more than welcome, dear friend,” he replied in kind, then switched to the common tongue. “It may be tragedy and happenstance that you come to stand here, or it may be as others believe: an ordained event by a being outside of even the most ancient memories of the Fade that moves us all like chess pieces upon a board. I cannot say. Yet I believe in  _ you _ and in your strength and courage.” 

She smiled. “All right, Solas. Let’s close this damn thing.”

He returned her smile. “As you say, Herald.” 

Solas turned from her and called directions out to the mages. Her left hand shook as she felt the power build - was this how mages always felt? No wonder it could drive some of them mad. The force of it filled her as though she were nothing but a glass vessel. Drowning. Darkness.

No.

_ She  _ was in control.  _ She _ bore the Mark, the Anchor, whatever anyone wanted to call it, it was on  _ her  _ hand, _ her _ body. It might have been someone else’s magic once, but now it was  _ hers _ . This magic would not pull her under. 

It was a river, but she made her mind a raft. As she raised her hand high, she imagined sticking an oar into the current, directing it. The air cracked and snapped around them as the combined power of the magi pulled taut. She cast it out and a long line of strong, sizzling green magic connected her body to the Breach for all the world like an enormous magical umbilical cord. 

Objectively, she knew it hurt. Part of her mind could feel it, but the rest was focused on control. It was much like her battle calm. She had stepped outside of herself and directed her movements from somewhere other than within her own flesh. 

“More,” she made her mouth say.

Solas called out to the mages and more power surged her way. She could hear the soft tinkle of glass as lyrium potions were passed around, the shift of robes, the creak of wooden staves. Still, something was wrong, something was missing. 

Maybe she couldn’t do this outside of herself. Maybe she needed to feel the magic, or it needed to feel her, like the last time she had stood in this very spot. With reluctance, she let go of a little of her control, letting herself be pulled along the current of magic. She could feel something, or someone, holding onto a tether of some kind that kept her from being pulled too far. Solas, she thought dimly. 

She made herself open her eyes. It pulled her sharply into herself, and she rocked back as the pain hit her. It was tremendous. Her arm would be pulled from her, she felt certain. Torn off like a piece of roasted chicken. Out of instinct, she flung out her right hand for balance toward Solas. He took it in his and called out to her, but she couldn’t hear him over the swirling vortex of power that began to build. 

Wind whipped around her, dust and debris and the green glow of the Fade blocking out everything. Raw magic surged through her, up the umbilical to the Breach. Her throat hurt. It was possible she was screaming. 

“NO, SEEKER! If it stops now, it will tear her spirit from her body and kill her. We must bring the power back down slowly!”

“Solas, it’s killing her now!”

“She knew the risk, Cassandra, give them a chance! We cannot fail her!”

“Cullen, I-”

The _hell_ they would pull the power down slowly. She reached out with sheer force of will and pulled the power back out of the mages. They stumbled, gasping, and she grit her teeth against the screams in her throat and yelled, “MORE, DAMN YOU ALL!”

More lyrium, more pain, more shouting. The storm rose and whipped around them. The pain grew white hot and terrible, but she refused to give into it. She could not. She could not let that future happen.  _ She must not fail. _

With a final scream of defiance and the power of forty mages coursing through her, Evelyn grabbed the edges of the very sky itself with her will and drove back the Fade. 

Green light exploded through the sky, but the swirling vortex of clouds stilled at last. The pain in her arm and head vanished as quickly, everyone’s power snuffed out with exhaustion and a reinforced barrier between them and the Fade. The light of her hand fell silent and Evelyn swayed on her feet. 

She managed to look at Solas, who met her stare with a look of pure astonishment and wonder. The absurd urge to laugh took hold of her as the stunned silence echoed louder than the storm of magic had. 

Instead, she dropped Solas’s hand, fell to her knees, and vomited out every last morsel of food she’d eaten in recent memory. 

That broke the mood of reverence and a raucous cheer went up from all gathered. Cassandra was at her side in a heartbeat, holding back her hair and rubbing her back as she continued to shake and heave. “You did it!” the Seeker cried, joy and disbelief and excitement in her voice. “You did it, Evelyn!” 

“Hey, Stabs!” Varric called with amusement. “I think Chuckles has a sympathetic stomach, so can you get a hold of yourself, already?” 

Solas murmured something from a distance and did, indeed, decidedly sound as ill as she felt.

The heaves dissolved into laughter, which only made her stomach hurt worse. “I,” she gasped, “hate all of you.” 

Varric laughed again, and handed her a handkerchief and a waterskin. “Yeah, Stabs. We hate you too, kiddo. Now let’s get you down to the pub and get a few pints in you so you can repeat this whole scene in a few hours. The puking part, not the crazy magic hole in the sky part.” 

Weary and shaky legs, Evelyn stood. “You’re buying.” 

The Commander approached them, grinning from ear to ear. “Hell, Varric, I’ll buy. Let’s go.” He clapped Cassandra on the back and put a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. “Well done, Evelyn Trevelyan; the Herald of Andraste.” 

A cheer once more erupted, with astonishing force. Cullen kindly wrapped an arm around her waist, as did Cassandra, and together they led her back to Haven. 

Clouds began to drift over the horizon, and the crisp wind smelled of snow. Evelyn tilted her head back as the first few flakes fell, letting them coat her eyelashes. 

She was  _ alive _ .

It was wonderful.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt the Breach should have been a little more dramatic to close.


	15. The Hard Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fall of Haven pt 1

Raucous fiddles and laughter floated on the cold wind. Enough firewood and free-flowing ale kept the townsfolk out of their homes and happy, despite the imminent foul weather. Quite honestly, Evelyn was almost looking forward to being snowed in. Perhaps then she’d be able to have more than three nights’ consecutive sleep. 

She leaned against the low Chantry garden wall and watched the people of Haven celebrate. It was an odd feeling, but a good one. Solas had called it her victory, but that didn’t feel completely right. It was theirs, not just hers. All of them, from Cassandra to Solas to the Iron Bull to Flissa’s newest tavern maid. 

Was this what it felt like to be part of something bigger than herself? 

The High Woods Hunters had always been a small thing, just an extended family. For a time, the Inquisition had started to feel like that, like more than a simple tool to help pay back a blood debt for her cousins’ lives. Now it felt...bigger. 

Even more surprising was the sensation that she didn’t dislike it. Purpose. Life. 

_ The Inquisition has the chance to be more than that. There’s so much we can - _

The Commander was right. There was so much they could do. It would need to be a carefully trodden path, but they had a chance to not only see a great wrong corrected and bring peace, but to change the world for the better. For everyone. 

When the bell sounded, she didn’t recognize it at first, so alien was the thought that anything dare intrude on their hard-fought peace and celebration. Then she registered shouting voices as the fiddles stuttered silent.  _ Damn _ .

She threw on the coat of her reinforced leathers, which she hadn’t bothered to change out of after seeing the healer. It was a quick distance to her cabin for her blade harness and she picked up an extra potion pack just in case and slid it onto her belt. She didn’t know who was attacking them, but whomever it was had waited until they were vulnerable, even braving the oncoming snow storm to gain the advantage of darkness and half-drunk opposition. 

Belatedly, she recalled Solas’s worries over the Elder One she’d learned of in that dark Redcliffe future. She had learned to take the elf’s concerns and thoughts quite seriously, but it had been all to easy to think of Redcliffe as a victory won and dismiss it at that.

Evelyn found Cassandra with Cullen and Josephine at the town gate, Dorian and Sera trailing after her. Dimly she could hear the Iron Bull shout orders to his men. “What do you mean, no banner?” Josephine asked. “Could it just be bandits?”

“Too big,” Cullen answered shortly. “It’s hard to get a read on the numbers in the darkness, but this isn’t a raiding force. It’s an occupation, or…”

“Annihilation,” Evelyn filled in grimly, and Josephine looked faint. “Civilians?”

“Behind the gate already, with guards on the weak points on the walls. The rest of the forces are gathering in the valley, minus the teams I’ve got on the trebuchets. They’re coming down the mountain paths. If we get out there quickly and fire we can get the upper hand on the terrain and even out the numbers. Haven is not a particularly defensible location, so it will rest on our ability to gain and keep an advantage.” 

She nodded her understanding. “Bull,” she called, “I need the Chargers on the south trebuchet. Take Solas with you. I’ll take the north with Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian. Sera, get up high and rain down death.” 

“Can do, Hairy. Watch that ass, yeah?”

She threw the elf a wink, hoping to ease the fear that wavered under her false cheer. Sera made a rude gesture in return but seemed a little more confident. “Get to your men, Commander, I’ll keep the gate and the advance troops clear. Lady Vivienne, can you gather those mages you think won’t be a hindrance and get them to the valley with Cullen? I want the Grand Enchanter and the rest of the mages on healing and defensive wards, just like the Commander had them practice.”

“Of course, dear,” Vivienne acknowledged, flipping the hilt of her spirit sword in her agile hands. She radiated a calm determination that, along with her considerable skill, would be good for the soldiers to see. 

Cullen touched her arm briefly in acknowledgement and thanks, and then was off, hurling orders that were obeyed quickly and without question. If they had a shot at surviving this, she thought, it was largely due to his skill and planning. 

She opened the gate and beheld a heavily armored soldier with the emblem of the Templar Order on his breastplate. Dorian barely had time to snap out a spell before the soldier, his war axe raised, fell to the side and crumpled. Dorian paused, energy crackling around his raised hand. 

Evelyn kept her blade out, but tilted her head in curiosity. A youth stood in a ring of dead bodies, a wide-brimmed hat better suited to desert sun perched on his pale head and bloody daggers at his sides. “Templars have come to kill you,” he said simply. “I’m Cole. I’m here to help you.” 

Cassandra sucked in a breath. “What? This is the Lord Seeker’s response to our alliance with the mages?”

“You took them,” the boy told them, but his face was turned to Evelyn. Behind locks of white blond hair, she beheld a serious pair of blue eyes. “He’s very angry you took his mages.” 

She stepped forward. “Who’s angry?”

“The Elder One. You know him? He knows you. He hates you.” 

“Seeker, Stabs,” Varric interrupted, bent over the corpse of the Templar. He pointed when they looked at him. “Red lyrium.”

Evelyn followed the direction of his finger to where spikes of red lyrium jutted out from beneath the Templar’s helmet. She rushed forward and pulled it off, exposing the dead man’s face. “Shit,” Varric muttered, succinct as ever. 

Dorian looked at her. “It’s just like Redcliffe.” 

The lyrium was attached to the Templar. It was part of him, coming up through his skin and splitting it in places. Just as it had done to Cassandra, Varric, and Solas in that terrible, terrible future. Evelyn swore roundly, then looked at the youth. “We have no time to talk, but help where you can if you’ve a mind to.”

She traded a hard look with Dorian. “Trebuchet. Let’s go.”

They fought a path through the advance troops that had trickled in ahead of the main flood. Dorian’s jaw was set in a firm, determined grimace. She hoped Solas had enough warning from the scout she’d sent running to be prepared for the red lyrium. Vivienne and Fiona had both questioned her endlessly about it, so she had no fears on their part. They would have their people ready for the impact of it. 

Still, it made her own head swim, and she couldn’t imagine what it was doing to the mages and Templars in their ranks. Cassandra’s Seeker abilities were next to useless against this enemy. She kept her eyes peeled for any mages or soldiers in Tevinter garb, but if this force held any, they were with the main column of the army and not yet here. They’d run up against their own people down in the valley. 

Evelyn scanned the mountain, her eyes adjusting to the dark beyond the campfires at last. She still couldn’t make out the bulk of the force, but even a conservative estimate had it at twice their number, easily. More likely it was thrice. The valley would be overwhelmed, quickly, even with Cullen’s careful planning and the integration of mages into their forces. Against an army of red-lyrium-empowered Templars, they didn’t have much chance. 

Dorian swore and stumbled as he was hit with a purge. Evelyn swung and sliced off the foot soldier’s head before he could really put power behind it, so it didn’t knock the mage unconscious. He gasped. “That really sucks,” he bit out as she held him steady. 

Evelyn opened her mouth to reply, then grunted and stumbled backward as something sharp and burning pierced her shoulder. She turned the momentum into a spin and used it to launch one of her belt knives in the direction the projectile had come from. It missed, but distracted the creature long enough for Varric to tear multiple holes in it with a volley from Bianca. They stared at the body when it fell in front of them. “Maker’s breath,” Evelyn gasped.

It, maybe, had once been human. Pieces of armor still clung to its form, waist draped with the livery of the Templar Order. But it was gray, misshapen, monstrous. Its torso was swollen and malformed, with massive spikes of red lyrium growing out of its skin like spines on a porcupine. She felt sick.

But oh, no, that was her shoulder. Belatedly, she clapped a hand to the wound and felt the texture of something smooth and slippery. “Shit,” she swore. “Shit, shit, help.” She couldn’t get purchase on it with the blood on her hand, the spike of red lyrium crystal that had sliced clean through her shoulder. 

Cassandra sprinted to them and pushed Evelyn down against the stone wall. “Varric, cover.”

The dwarf nodded, wide-eyed, and then turned around to rain down death with Bianca and a handful of his special exploding mines. Dorian scooted closer to her, still panting from his own hit, but he wrapped his hands around her shoulders and held her still. When he nodded at Cassandra, Evelyn bit back another round of cursing as she realized what was going to happen. 

With her free hand, she popped the cork on a vial of distilled elfroot oil and braced herself. 

The spike of red lyrium hurt like nothing else she’d ever felt as Cassandra pushed it through and out of her body. With a hiss, Evelyn managed to get the elfroot oil over the front of the wound where the leather was torn while Dorian did the same to its mirror on her back. Cassandra slapped on a handful of spindleweed salve and wrapped it tightly. They’d all gotten better and faster at magic and non-magic emergency healing since the first debacle in the Hinterlands. Dorian was already downing a restorative mix of lyrium and royal elfroot, and they staggered back to their feet. 

Dimly, she heard a cheer go up as the first trebuchet landed a strike smack into the main column. The wind had picked up, and it ruffled her hair. “Snow,” she said absently.

“What?” Cassandra turned around to her, frowning.

“Snow,” Evelyn repeated, a plan forming. “We need to get the advantage on the terrain. Come on.”

She picked up a discarded shield and slipped it onto her mostly useless arm now. She could lift it enough for defense, and swing it if she must. She couldn’t muster the strength to launch a blade, though, so this would be one-handed until she could find a healer. 

The north trebuchet was almost entirely overrun, most of their scouts dead. She growled and fought her way to the trebuchet platform crank, shouting orders for the others to cover her back. She heard the familiar shout of the Iron Bull and answering holler of his chargers as they joined the fray. In moments, Solas was beside her, grim-faced and splattered in gore but otherwise unharmed. 

He placed a hand on her injured shoulder but she shrugged him off before he could get the healing spell begun. “Crank,” she bit out, panting against the pain. “Aim - mountain. Avalanche.” 

Solas’s eyebrows lifted but he processed her grunts quickly and nudged her to the side. She watched the angle of the trebuchet as he rotated the platform, then tapped his back to get him to stop. He shook out his hands and straightened, both of them darting to the trigger and throwing themselves on it, releasing the counterweight. The sled shot upright, trailing the sling behind it with what Evelyn fervently hoped was enough force to reach the distance she thought it could. 

It did. 

Solas used her distraction as a chance to start healing her shoulder, but she couldn’t complain. A wolfish grin spread across her face as the payload hit the side of the mountain they knew from personal experience was far more prone to avalanches and mudslides. It rumbled and both armies seemed to pause and hold their breath in the scant moments before a storm of white death flowed down onto half the attacking force. 

The elf dropped his hands with one final pat to the bloody bandage. “You were fortunate there were no shards,” he told her, but she could hardly hear him over the raucous cheering. Cassandra found them and gave Evelyn a fond clap on the back, which nearly bowled her over. “Good work, Boss!” Bull crowed. 

_ They could win this _ . She looked and found Dorian, their gazes meeting in unspoken acknowledgement and determination. They would not let that dark future come to pass. 

Her mother had told her a story once; a tale of three ancient beings who threaded together the strands of fate and prophecy and the games they played with mortals. It was an old tale, older than the Chantry, older than Tevinter. The countryside around Ostwick was full of such “old wisdom” as her mother called it, if one knew how to listen for it. 

It was a fine tale to terrify a young daughter, but until the horrid screech rent the air above their heads and the shadow of a great winged beast fell over them, it had always been just a story. Now, she was fairly certain these weavers of fate were laughing at her.

“That’s no normal dragon,” Bull muttered, but the words were all but lost as a stream of crackling, blood-red fire erupted from the beasts mouth and took out half of their defenses. 

Cassandra picked herself up from the ground. “An archdemon?”

“Impossible,” Solas spat, but even he looked shocked. 

It was larger than any high dragon she’d seen, and menacingly dark, blending against the sky and lit only by the reflective lights of their burning town. “Get everyone you can behind the walls and to the Chantry. Go!” 

Only a short time could possibly have passed, but it felt like an eternity of chaos. Fires, that damned dragon shrieking and blowing down flames that were impossible to put out. Solas managed a few, but the sheer amount of ice it took made it impractical, and they counted those structures as lost. 

The whole town was lost. 

The Inquisition was-

No, she couldn’t think like that, not yet. They had to keep moving. Evelyn swore as she kicked in the door of the tavern and yanked the weeping barkeep out. Flissa, wasn’t it? Evelyn barely had time to register Cassandra’s soothing words to her before more screams caught her ears, followed by deeper curses. She vaulted up the stone steps that led to the alchemist’s hut and dispatched three Templar scouts before they even saw her. 

Minaeve, that sweet apprentice researcher with the horribly tragic childhood - memorable for being worse than her own by leagues - was caught beneath a fallen beam. The grumpy alchemist threw his makeshift weapon of a broken chair leg aside and freed her. He lifted her into his arms despite her protests, through a grateful nod in Evelyn’s direction, and then hurried off. Something in the way the elf tucked her head into Adan’s shoulder caught Evelyn and nearly knocked the breath from her. This wasn’t just a fight. This wasn’t just a battle. 

Archdemon be damned, she wasn’t going to lose these people. 

Only when she was sure she’d gotten most of the stragglers out ahead of her did she retreat to the Chantry. She caught sight of Cullen and her heart sank. He wouldn’t have pulled their men back if there was any other choice. The Chantry would offer scant protection, and not for very long. 

Evelyn locked eyes with him and knew just how hopeless it was. Neither had to say it. 

She’d been on the losing end of a fight before and gotten out of hairy situations barely standing, but this? This was...relentless extermination. There would be no quarter, not with the monsters the Templars had become, let alone the dragon. Archdemon? How was there an archdemon with no darkspawn? No blight? 

That strange boy, Cole, made his way past them with Chancellor Roderick slung over his shoulder and bleeding out. “He tried to stop a Templar. He’s going to die.”

“Charming boy.” Roderick looked bad, indeed. Evelyn passed Cole a pain tincture. Mostly white willow bark, but with some distillation of poppy. She usually kept one on her in case she couldn’t get to a healer and things were dire. Given a choice, she’d rather not die screaming. 

A choice they didn’t really have now. 

She looked over at Cullen, his face pale and pinched. His hard expression gave nothing away, but she could see the turmoil behind it in his eyes. They always gave him away. Strange that she’d looked at them enough to notice it, but only noticed it now. “There must be something…” she let the words hang in the air, softly spoken in defeat. 

Cullen shook his head. “We can...we can turn the trebuchet. One last shot. Bury them.”

“We’ll bury Haven and everyone in here as well.”

“We’re already dead, Evie,” he said softly, “at least we can choose how. There’s no other way out of this.” 

“There is,” Cole interjected, “Chancellor Roderick knows a way out.”

Evelyn traded a shocked look with Cullen and they both rounded on the cleric. “What?”

He had difficulty forming the words, blood frothing at his lips. She knelt carefully, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He’d been an ass at the best of times, but he didn’t deserve this. None of them did. “Roderick, please, stay with me. Help me save them.”

“Summer pilgrimage. Found old path,” he managed. “Overgrown then, but you can find entrance now. Through cellar. Tunnel under river. Older than temple. Marks on wall...trail they carried her ashes by…I had forgotten until...”

She’d barely turned her head around before Solas, Cassandra, and Leliana were off organizing the retreat. “Under the river can get them past the Templars to the northern passage.” 

“It’ll be hard, that thing will follow us,” Cullen warned. 

“It won’t,” Cole stated. “It only wants you. The Elder One...he only wants you. He commands the archdemon, and the Templars. Samson, weak voice once now strong. More power at his back, death doesn’t matter, only the potential. He leads his brothers to their greater glory, finds the power within, digs it out of them. I don’t like him. He was quiet, but now he sings too loudly, like the Elder One.”

Cullen stared. “Samson?  _ Raleigh _ Samson?”

“The Elder One came for you,” Cole continued, ignoring Cullen. “He wants the mark. He wants to kill you. He doesn’t care about anyone else but he’ll crush them anyway.”

It was enough. She didn’t care. Let the monster come for her. She could get them free. “He should have sent a calling card.” Evelyn stood, nodding at Cole, who seemed to understand instantly what she was going to do. The boy looked torn, like he wanted to stop her but also didn’t. “I’d have saved some of the toasted cheese. Now what will I offer our guests? Mother would be appalled. I’ve only a single trebuchet and a snow-covered mountain to my name.” 

Cullen’s hand closed around her upper arm. “Evelyn…”

“You have the time it takes for me to tighten my boots and bracers to come up with another plan, Cullen.” He stayed silent, but helped her rebuckle the sword harness. “Get them out,” she told him. “I need you to get them out and keep them safe.” 

He nodded, but brushed a hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear in an unexpectedly intimate gesture that somehow, some way, felt entirely natural. As though he’d done it a hundred times, as though it was something they simply did. “Evelyn...Herald. If we are to have a chance...if you are to have a chance... _ let that thing hear you _ .”

He turned away from her and for a moment, she was reluctant to move knowing she would likely never hear his voice again, never watch the confident yet unconscious grace with which he moved, never…

This would get them nowhere.

Evelyn turned back to the door and took a breath. “Bull,” she called. In a heartbeat the mercenary was at her side. He was every bit the warrior and soldier Cullen was, and she was grateful. He’d know exactly what was what and she wouldn’t have to argue. “Get me to that trebuchet. The minute - the very minute - that beast shows up, you get your boys and go. Understood?”

He didn’t like it, that was obvious, but he nodded. “The hard decisions, Boss.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Let’s go.”

  
  



	16. The Conductor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall of Haven pt 2.

The Iron Bull was a force of nature with his war axe. She’d never seen anyone wield a two-handed wall-breaker like that as a primary weapon, but somehow he managed it without constantly leaving himself open. The advantage of Qunari physicality, she guessed. He was strong enough to temporarily wield it one-handed if he needed a shield, but she’d only ever seen him use one against mages. 

It was easy to fall into a rhythm with the Chargers. Most merc companies were essentially the same in structure, after all. Diverse jobs needed diverse talents. Like the Hunters, the Chargers had a little bit of everything. 

For a heartbeat, she thought maybe, just maybe…

The shriek rent the air and Evelyn only had a moment to find Bull’s gaze and yell “GO!” before the world erupted into red flame. The dragon circled, and the Chargers retreated. Evelyn dropped her shield and pulled her second blade. A group of Templars and their monsters stood between her and the re-aimed trebuchet now. They wouldn’t for long. 

In the time it took the dragon to wheel back around, Evelyn had dispatched every last enemy. That odd feeling of stepping outside of herself had come, placing within her the most tranquil calm she’d ever felt. There was nothing left but battle and death. For all their power, the Templars she fought were not seasoned soldiers. Their moves were signalled, their guard stances faltering and forgotten as they leaned on their newfound power. 

But she was no mage, and it was useless against her. Strength aided them not when she could dodge them. Armor mattered little when she knew where to strike between plates when their guard fell. The only one that gave her any amount of trouble was a hulking brute covered in red lyrium crystals and dragging one arm behind it like a war hammer. Yet like any brute on a battlefield, the moments between one swing and the next were undefended. It took her a few strikes to shatter the lyrium, but the beast seemed intent on repeating its actions, as though the simple orders to swing and hit were all it could recall.

It hit the ground, but then so did the dragon, and there was little else Evelyn could do but try and dodge the flames. Wooden scaffolding and the reserve store of explosive potions went up behind her, and she dropped to the ground and covered her head. It took a moment for the smoke to clear, but she blinked through it and struggled to her knees. 

When she could look up, the dragon was staring back at her. 

Up close, it was even worse. Needle-like teeth, with a jaw thrice as big as any high dragon she’d ever seen. With the Hunters, she’d taken down two. They were terrifying, but this was...this was a nightmare. Where there should be colorful scales, there were chitinous plates so dark red they might have been black. Heat radiated off the creature, its eyes as red as the lyrium of the Templars. 

It smelled of death and decay, like...like darkspawn. 

Motion caught her eye and she turned her head, blinking against the vision that assaulted her eyes. For a moment, her mind simply refused to obey and she stared it mute horror.

A creature, taller than any man but shaped as though he once was one. Or once knew what a man looked like. Yet it was all wrong; so very, very wrong. Bones where there shouldn’t be, bones on the outside, claws, limbs like a demon. Tattered cloth so old it was part of the skin, chunks of red lyrium crystal where half of his head should have been.

Darkspawn. She knew it in her bones. Could smell it. Taste it in the air. It radiated around them, that buzz of the Blight, amplified for even her ears by the strange resonance of the red lyrium. 

The voice that rumbled out of it was the same one that had turned her knees to jelly at the temple mount. With sudden clarity, the puzzle piece slid into place in her mind, and she knew she’d heard that horrible dragon shriek before. Redcliffe. The future.

The Elder One. 

Of course he was a darkspawn. Of course it would be that, her deepest fear. She’d swallowed it down, fought the stupid hurlock and genlock grunts that straggled around the Storm Coast by twos and threes. She hadn’t been alone, she’d had a Warden with her, Solas and his healing were there. It hadn’t been great, but it had been short and tolerable. 

This thing, though...the menace that radiated off him took her back to those shaking, terrible memories of the cave. Her cousin’s shattered body. The taste of the blood in her mouth. The bile, rising. 

She fought it down now. She couldn’t fall apart, not yet. Her death was only worth something if it bought the Inquisition and the townfolk time to get out. Bull would signal with a flare when the rear was clear of the remaining enemy forces. Evelyn had to keep it together until then.

Keep it talking. It talked. That was novel for a darkspawn. Or was it merely corrupted somehow but not fully?

She spat out answers, taunts, anything to keep it talking. Only after the ringing in her ears subsided a little did she actually process what it - what he - was saying. The name rattled around her mind and then settled like a stone in her heart.

_ Corypheus _ .

All those months helping Lilith and the boys study. Sitting upright through Chantry service with Katie’s elbow poking into her. The classes she had to sit through along with her cousins when all of them would have rather been outside playing, except for Lilith. Lessons in Tevene, Orlesian, Antivan.  _ Corypheus _ . The Conductor. It meant Conductor. 

The Conductor of the Choir of Silence. One of the Magisters Sidereal; the men that stormed the Golden City and turned it black and blighted. 

A horror unlike any she’d ever known settled bone-deep into her. She’d never thought she believed, not really, not actively. But this was a monster out of legend, real and walking. The embodiment of the evil she was taught to fight against since her earliest memories. It reduced her to a child in the face of it, with the blind faith of a child where the world simply was and was never questioned, nightmares never reasoned away with daylight. 

Still, she could not. Could not let it win. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Words mortals often hurl at the darkness.” He sounded bored. “They have never been true.”

“Why are you doing this?”

If it was possible for such a creature to snort, he did so now. “You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and in doing so stole from me the mark you now bear. What you flail aimlessly at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens.”

She had? Dimly, she recalled the Fade echoes at the Temple of Sacred Ashes: ghostly images of the Divine bound by magic and crying out for help. Her own voice, demanding answers. Why could she not remember it? “What...what is it? What was it meant to do?”

“It meant to create certainty where none exists. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.” From the folds of his ragged clothing, he pulled out a silverite orb, as big as her head. It pulsated with magic that made the mark on her hand throb. Its surface was etched in patterned whorls that she felt, somehow knew, had meaning, but it was beyond her. Its green light radiated sickly, overtaken by a humming red buzz of corruption. Whether it was lyrium or blight, she could not say, but something had infested the artifact, turning its magic foul. 

Solas had been right. Something had been used to create the Breach, and used intentionally. But not to disrupt the Conclave. No, this Elder One...Corypheus...was playing a much deeper game. The Venatori, the chaos, a hole ripped wide in the Veil…

He lifted the orb, and she was no longer capable of rational thought. Pain wrenched through her, as the magic bound to her blood now tried to reunite with its mate in the orb. Sharp needles of agony ripped through her muscles, every nerve straining to resist, to hold on to the power. She clenched her jaw firmly and tried, tried so very hard, to resist, but eventually screams tore out of her throat. 

After what felt like an eternity, he dropped the orb and howled in frustration. Evelyn pitched forward, empty stomach heaving, the copper taste of blood in her mouth. She wiped a hand across the wetness on her lips, and realized her nose was bleeding with the strain of holding on to the magic. She hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t wanted any of this.

But she’d be damned if he’d get it. 

“It is pointless,” the creature growled. “The anchor is permanent; you have spoilt it with your stumbling.” 

Suddenly he was towering before her, claws gripping her arm and hauling her off her feet. She felt a bone snap in her forearm and whimpered. It was worse up close. He didn’t reek like the other darkspawn, but everything about him radiated such a horrid wrongness that she felt physically repelled. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. Be glad. You will be spared the chaos to come.”

He tossed her like a rag doll and she hit the wooden frame of the trebuchet hard enough to knock the breath out of her lungs. Stars swam in front of her vision and she fought to stay conscious against the tide of blackness. 

“I will give this world the god it deserves. The only god. For I have seen the seat of creation, and it was black and empty.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a brief flicker. A flare of fire against the dark, flickering out quickly in the oncoming storm. Bull’s signal. They’d made it. 

She pushed up with her legs and staggered to her feet. A hair’s span away from death, she looked it straight in the eyes. 

“Eat shit.”

And with every last ounce of energy she threw herself onto the trebuchet trigger lever. It fell loose as the siege engine clattered to life. Her momentum sent her tumbling down, past the fallen defenses, down the hill until at last she lay in a tumbled, broken heap on one of the old wooden walkways. That she wasn’t impaled by a stray blade was a miracle, but considering that she wasn’t sure what bones weren’t broken, she could only be grateful for one last look at the sky. 

At the very least, the Maker could have shown her some stars or something. But no, had to be a cloudy abyss and snowflakes riding the rising winds for her final view.

Dimly, she heard the dragon shriek, only to be followed by the telltale roar of an avalanche. She struggled to sit up, to stand. This, she wanted to see. The day she buried Death. She laughed, with the final rush of adrenaline and surged to her feet.

Only moments later she tripped and fell. And kept falling. 

Then it was blackness. 

…

Green.

Everything was green, and warm. Lush and golden. Soft grass, blue skies. The clouds moved quickly. Or they didn’t move at all. She wasn’t sure. 

Something warm and gentle touched her face. Soft, leathery. Like a dog’s nose. Or Fenalhan. The woods were familiar, she was back home. Asleep, and Mirana had sent her damned wolf to wake her up again. 

A soft, canine whine. She pushed the muzzle away. “Sod off, Fen. Mirana can come get me herself.” 

Another whine, more insistent. A soft lick on the side of her face.. A rush of...magic? Pain, bones knitting, sharp and sudden.

Cold. 

_ Get up. You must get up. _

Her eyes snapped open and took in darkness, altered only by the flickering light of the mark. She raised her arm experimentally. It hurt, but wasn’t it broken? It didn’t hurt as badly as that. Still, it wasn’t right. Had the magic of the achor healed her somehow?

She struggled upright, shivering. Ice surrounded her, and stone. One of the old mining tunnels the town had decked over. Well. She’d survived the avalanche.

“Shit.” Cold was at least a peaceful death, she’d heard.

_ Keep moving. _

Of course she would hallucinate Solas’s voice, of all people. She was half surprised the elf hadn’t materialized behind her and started healing her injuries, complaining about her recklessness while Varric called him their little bald mother hen. 

She staggered forward. Somewhere. The tunnel had to go somewhere. 

Naturally, that somewhere was a clutch full of demons, who managed to look as shocked as she felt. They surged toward her out of the half-closed rift and she felt that same deadly, uncaring calm she had felt once before, standing in the broken courtyard of Redcliffe Castle in a terrible future.

“Fuck off,” she grunted, and flicked the anchor at them. 

A burst of green light momentarily blinded her and her hand felt like she’d thrust it into a hearth but her mind hadn’t caught up to the pain yet. As the light faded, she saw only ash where the demons had stood. Almost idly, she closed and sealed the rift. 

Well, that had at least gotten a bit of blood pumping. She made use of the energy and continued forward. 

Continuing forward was soon all she knew. First, a tunnel opening. Then, a raging snowstorm that had already buried the countryside in at least a foot of snow. How long had she been out? 

Remnants of the battle were barely visible, but she could discern that she was at least walking away from it. She staggered through the deepening snow, aware only that she must keep walking. There were hunter’s cabins, ice fishermen’s huts, maybe she could find one. Start a fire, stay warm for the night and then find the Haven survivors at first light. It was a long shot, but more likely than finding the survivors now. 

She could hear nothing but the howling of the wind, until another, different howl rose over it. Wildy, she thought for a moment that maybe she hadn’t dreamed her aunt’s wolf. But no, Mirana and Aidan and Jesper and Vess and that damnable nuisance Fenalhan were safe in Ostwick. 

It was a wolf, though, wasn’t it? She’d not seen many predators this high up in the Frostbacks, not with more plentiful game down in the valleys this time of year. 

Every instinct told her to head away from the sound, but something kept her feet moving toward it. Eventually, she convinced herself that she was hearing things. 

Walking. She had to keep moving. Keep going forward. Somewhere. Maker, she was tired. 

Step. Again. Step. She counted to ten, then started over. Counted to one hundred, then started over. Counted backwards. Anything to keep herself awake and moving when all she wanted was to collapse and sleep. 

The howling grew more insistent as the storm rose in intensity and she had to raise an arm against the wind. She struggled and stumbled through a copse of pine trees. When she placed a hand on a trunk, ducking under the boughs for shelter, she could have wept if there was any strength left in her. She could collapse here, it was out of the wind. Maybe she wouldn’t die. Maybe she would. 

A shadow crossed her vision, flickering in the light of the anchor. Wolf-like, almost. Large. Yet whenever she turned her head, it was no longer there. 

The howl again. It sounded...desperate. Frightened. 

_ You must keep moving!  _

It could have been Solas’s voice. It could have been the Commander’s. It might have been Cassandra’s chiding, rounded Nevarran accent. Varric would have cursed or pleaded. Bull would have picked her up, Dorian and Vivienne lightly mocking, while Sera taunted to hide her fear. 

She couldn’t fail them. 

So she kept moving. Where, she had no idea. Just moving. Blindly following a sound she knew was an invention of her own unconscious mind, willing her to survive. 

In a final twist of cruelty, it was when she finally spotted campfires that she knew she could no longer keep moving. Her legs refused to cooperate, her breathing had slowed, and her eyelids would no longer stay open. The snow was soft as she fell forward. She didn’t even feel the cold any longer. It was just such a relief to stop. 

The howl sounded, closer. But no, not a howl. A cry. “It’s her!”

“Thank the Maker!”

“Holy shit, Stabs!”

“ _ Fenedhis _ . Evelyn! Stay awake, stay with us!”

“I’ve got her, get the healers! Solas, you’re already exhausted.” Hands pulled at her, and she opened her eyes to find Cullen’s face inches from hers, desperately calling her name. With the last bit of energy she possessed, she smiled at him. “It heard me.”

The astonishment on his face was the last thing she saw before she pitched forward into his arms and her eyes refused to open again.

…

Cullen knew, ostensibly, that he should clear out of the tent and let the healer work, but he couldn’t bear to. Both Solas and Vivienne were exhausted and near mana-depletion, but the Grand Enchanter was a skilled healer, and Vivienne grudgingly gave up space to allow her to work. 

Even Cassandra and Varric had finally retreated, both of them wearing identical expressions of shocked wonder. Nothing Hawke had ever done had shaken the dwarf as badly, but then Hawke had only been human. 

Evelyn was something else. Had become something else. 

He wondered, dimly, in the part of himself that still somehow believed, if Andraste knew she was changing the world forever. Or had she done everything she’d done simply because she could and it was right? Had she stood only because there was no one else to stand in her place or because she knew the place had been set aside for her?

In the end, did it matter? 

The Hero of Ferelden fought because she could, because she had to, because no one else did, save for her and her companions. Even when things went sideways, Hawke had stood up because someone, anyone, had to and no one else would do the right thing in that cursed city. Would history remember those women as it remembered Andraste? As it remembered King Calenhad or Emperor Drakon? 

As it would now undoubtedly remember Evelyn Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste.

History seemed to coalesce around certain people, knotting them in its threads regardless of facts, of feelings, of fears and fights. He had the undeniable feeling of being caught in the still, quiet eye of a roiling maelstrom, but there was nowhere else he could be. 

Because she was here. 

He had turned from her, refused to look back. Terrified that if he did, he would forget himself, abandon his duty. Her fierce determination had awed him, her courage humbled him, but the flat, calm acceptance of her fate - her certain death - had shaken him. He was a soldier, a Commander. He had sent men to their deaths before, always with regret, always with hope that it would not come to that, but those decisions must be made. He’d gone into the fray himself, taken the same risks he’d asked others to take. He’d thought, at first, that was why it had been so hard to walk away. This was not a risk he could share.

That was part of it, certainly. He’d never been the sort to give an order he was not willing to carry out himself. 

But every step away from Haven was torture. Every instinct, every feeling screaming at him to go back, go back for her. Get them safe and then go back. He wouldn’t let her die in vain, but he didn’t want to let her die at all. He had to go back. 

He’d been the first up the mountain when the snow slowed and the scouts confirmed the enemy’s retreat. For hours, he’d paced like a restless, caged beast, and that energy carried him forward, the others trailing behind him. Solas, fighting through his exhaustion from healing the injured. Varric struggling in the deep snow but too determined to hear any argument about his staying behind. Cassandra on his heels, as dogged as he. Yet she had faith, and he only fear. 

But they found her. They found her, alive. 

Maker, the look on her face. The smile. 

_ It heard me. _

He had fought for ideals before. He fought for the Inquisition because it gave him purpose, and it was a noble purpose. Now… Maker’s breath, he would follow this woman to the end of the very earth if she let him. Faith was still a broken thing to him, but her? The set of her shoulders as she squared them and the tilt of her head as she thought through her plan and the glint in her eye of pure steel resolve. The unflinching dedication to others. The way she threaded between them all and wove together their intent and differences into the fabric of a movement. The unflinching ability to face down a terrible decision and make it, to do what was right, no matter the opinion of others, and to see that choice through. 

He believed in her, whole heartedly and without reservation. 

Cullen watched her sleep, nestled under the glow of the healer’s magic and the thickness of his cloak. He’d gotten her leathers off quickly and wrapped her in it, rubbing feeling back into her extremities while Fiona set up and Cassandra retrieved a coal brazier to heat the tent. His heart lurched in his chest as her eyelashes fluttered. 

It was more than faith, he knew, but that didn’t matter. Not now. Whatever he felt was for him alone to know. 

“She will recover, Commander,” Fiona’s voice interjected into his thoughts. He looked up at her calm, sympathetic face.

Despite every reason he might have had to dislike the mage, he had found the Grand Enchanter startlingly companionable. It was an odd feeling to be an ex-Templar who found himself liking the leader of the mage rebellion, but he did. She’d been patient with him and his soldiers. Firm in her defense of her people, but willing to work with them, despite Vivienne’s honeyed animosity and Cassandra’s wariness. 

He nodded in acknowledgement. She touched his shoulder briefly, but instead of casting magic, lifted a blanket around his shoulders in an almost matronly gesture. Idly, he wondered if she’d ever had children, but then realized if she had, they’d have been taken from her. 

He’d pulled babies from their mothers, and that shame would never wash clean. Even before he knew what Meredith had done with them, it was something he despised and sought to change. There had to be a better way. He’d been so convinced of their rightness that he hadn’t seen what it would take to make those changes. 

Cullen reached out and caught Fiona’s hand, giving it a small squeeze. “Thank you,” he told her, and they simply looked at each other. Was this the real start of peace? The Herald’s Peace: a Templar and a mage speaking as equals. As friends. 

“Get some sleep. I’ll have an extra cot moved in. We’ll set up shifts to watch over her.” 

He pulled the blanket around himself and nodded again, his eyes settling on Evelyn and the steady rise and fall of her breathing. They rested there until Cassandra came to relieve him hours later. 

…

Awake in fits and bursts, she fought through fever and soreness. Faces and snippets of conversation punctuated her dreams. Dreams that were blessedly gentle for once, where she was back in Ostwick, running around the woods with Fenalhan at her heels. She knew they were dreams, as that damn wolf barely tolerated anyone but immediate family of Mirana, and then not for very long. Mirana was the only one he ever hunted with. And how long did wolves even live?

Solas urging her to drink more broth. Varric reading to her by the light of a single candle, glasses perched on his nose. Bull was not allowed in her tent due to his tendency to catch the fabric on his horns, but he made Krem sit in his stead. His were the best visits, for the stories of the Chargers he told made her laugh hard enough to earn the consternation of her healers. Krem had a natural flair for storytelling, and his imitation of Dalish’s reaction to the spiders by setting them all on fire and then still insisting she wasn’t a mage had Evelyn in tears. 

Cassandra hummed softly during her evening visit, whenever a nightmare did manage to catch up to Evelyn. Cullen said nothing, but he held her hand more often than not, and the warmth of his touch would settle her back down.

Four days passed before the worst of the wounded were able to be moved. It was a silent week, full of waiting. Dried provisions they’d gotten out, supplemented by fresh ram meat and other game. The soldiers that hailed from the Hinterlands were able to point out winter roots and herbs from the alpine forests that could be gleaned. But now they had to move, or else sickness, starvation, weather, or their enemies would make easy prey of them. 

The announcement spread through camp, along with the argument of where, exactly, they should go. Some argued Ferelden, but no one wanted to step on King Alistair’s toes, and there was only so far Evelyn’s brief acquaintance could carry them. Ostwick was an option, as she knew her father would help without hesitation, but the Teyrn would pitch a fit and it was a long way. Orlais wasn’t any better an option with its civil war and backstabbing politics. 

The arguments raged on, the tension from the council radiating out to the furthest reaches of camp, where Orlesian Templars got into a fistfight with a few Ferelden recruits from Redcliffe farms. Still, no one could reach a decision, and Evelyn was heartily sick of the fighting, and kicked them all out of her tent. 

Only minutes later, and Mother Giselle entered. Evelyn groaned. She was in no mood for sermons. 

As always, Mother Giselle attempted diplomacy, and with anyone else her calming manner would have won them over. But Evelyn was too frustrated. She had not fought and nearly sacrificed her life to sit around in the mud and slush and argue. They had to go somewhere.

But Mother Giselle was also the only one who really understood her fear. “Corypheus,” Evelyn sighed. “He’ll find us again. We must be ready. Do you think…” She paused, and swallowed. “Do you believe him? That he is what he says he is?”

The revered mother shifted slightly on the other cot. “I cannot claim to know the thoughts of such a creature. If he is, then he is a monster beyond all reason.” She shook her head slightly. “I, too, used to think the Canticle of Silence was more cautionary tale than fact, though I did always believe there must be some truth to it. The hubris of men can be seen in any Age, and in a time when magic raged unchecked… I have said before that magic is not evil, ony pride. But that pride and power is what Andraste rose against, and it must have been great and terrible indeed to have sparked such a revolution. I have no trouble believing that a misuse of power by man contributed to, if not directly caused, the Blights.” 

“Always us,” Evelyn sighed. “Never elves or dwarves, have you ever noticed that? Only us. Well, Qunari have a knack for trouble, I guess.” 

“No one knows what Arlathan was really like, or the Dwarven empire below before the darkspawn. Perhaps it is only us since their civilizations failed. And perhaps it will be the same in the next world, or different.” 

Evelyn sat up and ran a hand through her hair. It hung loosely around her shoulders and down her back. The extra warmth of having it shield her neck and ears had been useful. “I don’t know about you, Mother Giselle, but I’m tired of everyone waiting for the next world. It’s time we started living in this one. If we manage to live at all,” she added wearily, defeated.

She stood and pinned up the tent flap, eyes finding the tense outlines of the other council members, who were studiously taking up opposite sides of the central camp square. Whispers and stares greeted her, and she realized with a start that this was the first time much of the Inquisition had seen her since Haven fell. 

For a horrible second, fear gripped her heart in an icy grip. The way they looked at her...it was different. They’d been respectful, awed when she stabilized and then closed the Breach, but this was...something else. Dedication, and other, stronger emotions. How could she face them? She may have helped save them, but it was not...she was not divinely blessed, she was simply willing to throw her life away for theirs. That wasn’t special, it just was. 

It took her a moment to realize that the entire camp had fallen silent, waiting. For what? For her? 

Mother Giselle’s soft voice floated past her, carrying one of the oldest hymns along with it. The hymn legend said Shartan sang at Andraste’s side the night before the Battle of Valarian Fields. The breath caught in Evelyn’s throat and she froze as first Leliana’s high, clear voice joined the revered mother, and then...others. 

Her eyes of their own accord found the Commander. His expression wavered between astonishment and something deeper, almost wistful, as he watched soldiers, civilians, merchants, and mages stand and sing. She felt an echo of it in the very core of her; that longing to believe in something bigger, the hope that it wasn’t all just a jumble of chaos. His eyelids drifted down and he lifted his own voice to the song. 

She felt the sound of it wrap around her very soul, if such a thing were possible. Eyes closed, she followed the thread of his voice until it was all she could hear in the rising tide of song around her. A lifeline in a storm of madness. Strength. Courage. For all of them. 

For him.

Evelyn opened her eyes, somehow not surprised to find a sea of kneeling, hopeful souls around her. It should have terrified her, that they had placed their dreams and trust at her soiled feet, but instead, she felt grateful. She would not fail them. 

The song drifted off, and no one dared speak in the calm, reverent silence that followed, least of all her. Slowly, one by one, the Inquisition stood and returned to their duties, hushed whispers and low voices following eventually. Renewed purpose and energy flooded through the camp like a current of energy. Perhaps faith was simply a magic even the most mundane could perform, after all. 

“An army needs more than an enemy,” Mother Giselle said softly. “It needs a purpose.”

Evelyn watched the revered mother walk away with her graceful, unhurried stride. “Wise woman,” a voice murmured over her shoulder, and she turned to look at Solas. “A word, Lethallan?”

She followed him as he walked away from camp. He stepped lightly upon the snow, and not for the first time she wondered how he could stand to go all but barefoot. That was one thing she would never quite understand about elves. Sera wore thin leather slippers to buck the custom, but Evelyn noticed how she shifted and pulled at them, and slipped them off when no one was looking, as though they bothered her to wear but she refused to admit it. That would be like Sera. 

Solas had no such compunctions. He simply was as he was, and it bothered him not a jot if someone didn’t care for his bare feet, simple homespun clothing, or the shape of his ears. It was the most comforting thing about him.

Well, it was a close tie to the heat he generously radiated out with magic, keeping them both warm. A short distance away from camp, he’d set up a small torch that he lit with veilfire, the light reflecting off a few wards nearby and a rumpled bedroll. Apparently, he’d found it easier to dream as he liked away from the din of camp. She could hardly blame him. 

“Find anything useful?” she asked. 

He shot her an assessing look, and his lip twitched. Amused, as he always was, and pleased at how quickly she caught on to his intent. “I did,” he admitted. “A few things, one of which is...troubling. The orb you described Corypheus using.”

She shivered, but it was naught to do with the cold. He kept them warm enough. “I remember. It’s the artifact you thought created the Breach.” The memory of the pain it had inflicted was still fresh. Evelyn reached out to the veilfire torch as though to warm her marked hand, but of course it emitted no heat. She ran her fingers idly through the magic flames. It tingled. “The magic in it reacted to the anchor, though,” she added, frowning, “it was...different. Corrupted somehow. Blight?”

“Or red lyrium,” he agreed, nodding. “Perceptive.”

“I’ve been around magic before, but never for long. I think the anchor has made me more sensitive to it? Or perhaps I’m simply more conscious in my assessments.” 

“Both, most likely. You are uncommonly perceptive, however.”

She snorted. “For a human?”

Solas chuckled, but shook his head. “For anyone.” He sighed. “The orb Corypheus carries is elven.” 

She let the implication of the words settle over her. “Shit.”

It was his turn to snort. “Succinctly put, yes.”

“All right, what is it and how do you know about it?”

“They were foci, said to channel and store ancient magics. Some were tied to specific members of the elven pantheon. All that really remains about them are a few etchings in ancient temple ruins, and very distant memories in the Fade.” 

“Shit,” she said again, for lack of anything better to say. Vigorously, she rubbed her hands over her face, hoping to somehow scrub out this new information. “How did he even get such a thing? No, don’t answer, I can’t imagine you have any better idea than I do. We don’t even know where he comes from, though if he was what he says he is...shit. No wonder the Venatori have rallied around him. He’s promised to restore the Imperium to the height of its power before the First Blight. A Blight that, by all known accounts, he caused.”

Solas tilted his head. “Do you believe that?”

“I don’t think it matters what I believe, honestly.” Evelyn sighed. “History can only be taken with a grain of salt, you know that as well as I do. It is always written by the victors, the conquerors, the power.”

“Yet?”

She met his look. “Yet I would have no trouble believing an arrogant bunch of powerful humans had the bright idea to break into the Golden City and make themselves gods. Or the idiocy to follow the orders of powerful, supernatural beings they barely understood. Hubris is a powerful drug. Corypheus said the city was black when they arrived, and empty. It could be that the Blight was already there and they let it loose upon the physical world, but that hardly explains the dwarven accounts of the darkspawn welling up from the deep. Or maybe it does? I barely understand how the Fade and the physical world intersect, after all. I can’t consciously enter it.” 

Solas smiled slightly. “I notice you no longer call it ‘the living world’.”

Evelyn laughed, lightly. “I may tease you, Solas, but I do actually listen when you speak.” 

“Then hear me now, lethallan,” he said, and the lightness vanished from his voice. “Whatever he is, Corypheus should have died in the wake of unlocking such stored power. These orbs are ancient, older than the height of Elvhenan itself, and it would have sat, gathering power for millenia. He must have believed it Tevinter to have gone anywhere near it, though the Imperium has ever fed itself by scouring the bones of my people. The fact remains: he survived, and that makes him even more dangerous than your own legends would have.” 

She could hear the question under his words. “I will need to tell Leliana, and perhaps Cullen. But otherwise, the orb’s origin should stay between us. They both will well understand the danger of letting anyone, especially the Chantry, have cause to use the elves as a scapegoat for the Divine’s death.” 

He relaxed, a little. “Agreed. I thank you, again, for your wisdom and compassion, Evelyn. It will serve you well in the days to come.”

She sighed again. “Not if we starve to death in this Maker-damned valley.” 

Solas smiled warmly. “Ah, now that I can help with. Yet, I think it should come from you.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.” 

…

  
  


The rustle of the druffalo and chatter among the travelers could not distract Evelyn from her nerves. They had followed her, almost blindly trusting that she would lead them to safety. Only the council knew that Solas had been the one to set the path, and they agreed with him that it should stay between themselves. None of them were keen to turn down the advantage Mother Giselle had given them in morale. 

She disliked the feeling of manipulation, but acknowledged its usefulness and Solas’s pragmatism. 

_ Scout to the north,  _ he’d told her. _ Be their guide. _

It felt good to move again, after four days largely spent on her cot, healing. She’d always loved mountains and being up higher than everything around her. Being able to see for miles around, feeling as though she could touch the sky if she reached up far enough...it was a wonderful freedom. 

_ There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. _

The path was winding, and it took more than a few advance trips to bypass fallen trees (or set them on fire, or explode them with arcane force as one enterprising mage did, terrifying Sera to the point where she’d refused to come along again) and rockslides. Yet they were drawing close, now. Somehow, she could sense it. Whether it was the energy in Solas’s step, belying an eagerness and excitement he was careful not to display, or whether it was the odd sort of tickling sensation at the edge of her consciousness, she couldn’t say. But she knew, somehow, they were near. 

_ A place where the Inquisition can build...grow… _

Evelyn looked up at Solas, who had climbed to the top of the steep boulder in their way. That was certainly one advantage of his absent footwear: he slipped a lot less on the rocky outcroppings. A few of the Fereldans who grew up near the Frostback ranges and traded with Avvar tribes showed other scouts how to climb over them more effectively, but Evelyn was still a novice at it. Maker, her arms ached. 

“Use your legs,” Blackwall called up at her. 

“I’ll use them,” she grumbled to herself after slipping out of another toe hold and just barely holding on, “use them to kick you right in your sodding ass you nug-humping blighted bastard.” 

A strong hand gripped her forearm and Solas hauled her up to the top, shaking his head and laughing as she swore roundly. She tossed a rude hand gesture back down at Blackwall, who hollered up that maybe her limbs were just decoration after all. 

“Bearded bastard,” she groused fondly. 

Solas snorted in amusement and gestured with his head for her to follow. “I’m suddenly glad I don’t have a beard.”

“Can elves even grow beards?”

“I suppose a really determined one could, but why?”

“Cold winters?”

He shrugged. “Our bodies are warmer by nature. No need to wear a mangy pelt on our chins.” 

She grinned at him, eyes darting to his bald head. He glared but there was no malice in it. He knew full well the impact he had on others, and she wondered if perhaps his baldness was a choice. Given the careful grace with which he carried himself, she wouldn’t be surprised. Solas was the sort to pick a role and inhabit it fully, holding most of himself in reserve. She was simply glad he let her in as far as he did. 

She knew what it was like to keep behind her own walls, and he was easily twice her age and experience. With that came pain and wisdom she could only guess at. 

“Hope we never go to a desert.”

“Hats are a thing, I’m told.”

“You can borrow Cole’s.” 

“Wouldn’t Dorian adore that? I shall have to try.” 

Evelyn laughed, heartily. With the sun shining above them, her friends beside her, and the air of excitement, she was almost...almost happy. It was an astonishing revelation, but one she did not have time to reflect upon, as Solas drew up with a sharp inhale. He turned back to her and the light that danced in his eyes was quite possibly joy. 

He held out a hand and smiled. 

She took it and he escorted her to the top of the ridge. The rocky cliff fell away, deep down to a rocky valley below. A river, thick with glacial runoff and silt wound down through the verdant alpine valley, but up higher, on the the mountain ledge opposite them…

Andraste’s sacred flame. It was  _ incredible _ . 

Solas stirred beside her, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the castle. It rose on a mountain of rock, impenetrable walls rising almost as an extension of the rock. Traces of Fereldan architecture, Orlesian-style machicolations, and more that she could not identify all blended together in one massive, powerful structure. 

But there was something else, underneath it all, some resonance in the very air, the stone, the earth. The anchor on her hand almost buzzed with it, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Something deep within her recognized this place, somehow. She shivered with the force of the feeling, so bone-deep and instinctual it was. It felt as though the valley sang a song and her very blood sang it back. 

She turned back to Solas, not able to find the words to express what she felt, much less understand it. He simply smiled, softly, and looked deeply pleased. 

“Skyhold.”

  
  



	17. It Heard Me

It would need a significant amount of work, but it was brilliant. Strong walls that were intact, an impenetrable position, plenty of room in the valley below for basic barracks that could be built in a clean and sustainable fashion. Fields for grazing livestock. Enough room in the castle to pull forces back and storerooms to survive a dug in siege. 

A dragon would be tougher, but the battlements offered opportunities for mounted aerial defense. At least, so the dwarven engineers they’d hired told them. Naturally the minute dwarves first beheld the sky, they started planning how to defend themselves from it, Varric had quipped. 

It would take a little time to get the rooms in the great hall fit for occupation, but it had promise. Here, they could breathe, take stock, get strong. Fight back. 

As Blackwall had so eloquently said once, save the fucking world if pressed. 

Behind these walls, the horrors of the battle and their flight began to recede a little. Evelyn knew full well they’d rear their ugly heads in nightmares, but for now...for now, she felt safe enough to think beyond survival. 

The mood seemed to carry...the burden of their loss was heavy, but there was determination in every step, strength in every voice. 

Evelyn stood and shouldered open the door of the south tower base, tossing her arm load of broken planks out onto the growing pile in the courtyard. She motioned for some soldiers to start bringing in the cots as they were through cleaning the floors, finally. Cassandra approached her just as she was rooting around in the requisition wagon for the fat beeswax candles that gave the best light. “A moment of your time, Herald?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the Seeker. “Certainly. Let me deliver these to the healers first. The more light we can supplement with candles, the less mana they spend on magelight and veilfire, and the more they can dedicate to healing. I want to get the wounded inside before nightfall so we can keep them warm.” She laughed quietly. “As Bull suggested, the rest of us can heat up our rum over the campfire.” 

Cassandra smiled. “You know, it’s rare for the weather to turn very cold in Nevarra, but in the mountains they have a tradition of heating rum with spices and butter or cream.” 

“That sounds remarkably good.” Evelyn wrinkled her nose in thought. “Do we have any spices? Or butter? Or for that matter, rum?”

She laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. There are more pressing matters at the moment, however.” 

Evelyn handed the candles over to Fiona’s people, who took them gratefully and disappeared back into the makeshift infirmary. She began to walk in the direction of the main hall with Cassandra, pausing only to grab a passing requisitions officer and give him instructions to get the healers their supplies and enough blankets for the cots. “Prioritize the wounded,” she told him, “then civilians. The rest of us can bundle into the great hall and start up a bonfire if we need. No ale out until everyone has shelter and a blanket.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Good man,” she told him, then turned back to Cassandra. “What can I help with, Seeker?”

Cassandra drew to a halt near the staircase. “You are already helping, a great deal. I am loathe to put more on your plate, but you must know as well as we do that the Inquisition needs a leader.” 

Evelyn nodded. “Have you found Hawke or Queen Elissa? I had agreed with Leliana that the Hero of Ferelden was a little less problematic at first, but now that the immediate danger isn’t the Mage-Templar War, Hawke might be the better bet. If we need to secure Orlais, doing so with one of the monarchs of their rival isn’t going to go over well and could set up Ferelden for violence further down the road. Orlesians love violence most when they can commit it on someone else’s land.”

“No, no,” Cassandra interrupted, holding up a hand. “Evelyn, you misunderstand.” The Seeker’s hand then dropped to Evelyn’s shoulder and rested there. “We already  _ have _ a leader. Who else could possibly do what you have done? You have led us from the moment you charged the demons in the ruins of the temple. You made the hardest decisions when the rest of us wavered, and you have brought our discordant voices into harmony. You are the one who has stood against the corrupt and the wicked, and  _ you did not falter. _ ”

Evelyn swallowed past a suddenly tight throat. “You undersell your own role in this, Cassandra.”

The other woman shook her head. “No, I know myself. I am not what the Inquisition needs now. You are. The others are in agreement as well. You see? Only with you can we agree on anything. Will you accept this role? It is, I know, the greatest burden we could ask you to take. To protect our people, to champion our cause, to guide us in wisdom and compassion as you already have. I believe in you, whether you are the Herald of Andraste or not. That does not matter when it is your heart that has led us this far, not your mark.” 

For a moment, Evelyn felt paralyzed. Doubt and fear crowded her thoughts, but she shook them away. Had she not vowed to take this beyond vengeance, after all? Had she not felt it, that feeling of being in the grip of a powerful current of history and circumstance? She had, and more. She had stood her ground and sworn to fight back against the darkness, against the senseless chaos, and all that was wrong. 

This was that chance. She wasn’t entirely sure it was the wisest choice. “You will stay?” she asked softly. “You will not leave? I will...all of you. I will need you.” 

Cassandra smiled again. “Yes, Inquisitor. We will stay, and we will follow.” 

Dimly, she realized that her hands were still dirty from her work in the south tower. It seemed absurd to think about, but that was all she could focus on as Cassandra led her up the stairs to face the crowd Cullen and Josephine had gathered. Cassandra drew a beautiful blade out of a waiting scabbard - ornamental, but deadly. Harritt’s work, of course. She knew it by sight.

She took the leather hilt in her hand, and the weight was perfectly balanced for her, as though the blacksmith had crafted it with her in mind. Evelyn swallowed and looked out over the crowd. So many faces, all lifted to her. By instinct, she sought out the Commander and found him close to the stairs. He, too, looked up at her, but he caught her gaze and gave her the slightest nod, lips lifting slightly in the same smile he gave her in the training ring when she managed to perfect a move he’d long told her she could. Believing in her when she had no faith in herself. 

It was enough. 

She didn’t have to have faith in herself, but she knew what was right and how to fight for it. “Inquisition!” she called out. “We have an enemy greater than any Thedas has seen in many long Ages. We have a fight ahead of us with more at stake than we know now, and few allies to fight alongside us. We have been beaten, we have suffered, but  _ we are still standing _ .”

The leather hilt was warm under her fingers, the blade never wavering. She looked out among the crowd, meeting as many eyes as she could. “We will always stand! We will always fight! We,  _ you _ , are the light in the darkness that must not go out. We stand for what is good and right in this world. We stand for justice, not just for the Divine or for Haven, but for everyone. Be it mage or Templar, human or elf, dwarf or Qunari, servant or lord, soldier or healer: we stand for all. No enemy, however great or ancient, however corrupted or powerful, will defeat us again. Together we will fight, and I swear to you now, together  _ we will triumph _ !”

The sword shone in the sunlight as she raised it above her head, catching the golden rays and reflecting them out among the roaring crowd. The Commander led them in their vows to follow and fight, and even Josephine cheered raucously. 

It was a beginning. For once in her life, Evelyn no longer felt afraid to stand at the edge of the precipice. They were with her. 

…

It was only natural that she’d want to seek out her Commander, was it not? As it was only natural to be a little nervous over his reaction. Yes, they’d all agreed unanimously to elect her to Inquisitor, but...well, everything was different in practice than theory after all. They listened to her, they had from the start, but they all spoke their minds and she didn’t want that dynamic to change. 

A large burden had been handed to her, true, but with it came a lot of power. Something had to balance that. Her father had drilled that into her head since infancy, even before she’d become heir apparent to Ostwick. She was an only child, afterall, and Annreth estate would be hers. Bann Trevelyan was a good man, a good leader. Even Mirana liked him, and she disdained the entire structure of human nobility. 

The best thing she could do, she knew, was to emulate her father and remember his lessons. Inhabit the role until it became second nature. 

Maker, but what she wouldn’t give to have him here with her. 

But that was selfish, and selfish she couldn’t afford to be. Not now. She’d already sorted that out with Blackwall earlier. He was right, of course. She knew what she was to everyone, and even though she’d been firm in her insistence that she could not afford for those closest to her to hold their tongues and opinions, she knew what she was to him now. And that there was no room for a casual dalliance between them, not for him. For her to push that was the height of selfishness. Afterall, she liked Blackwall, but any attraction was entirely physical and opportunistic. He was right to call her on that. 

And it was selfish to even think of calling her father away from Annreth and leaving it entirely in her mother’s hands. Not that Lady Elinor wasn’t more than capable, but the Teyrn had never acknowledged her or respected her. After all, she hadn’t been a noble before her marriage, just a fresh-faced farm girl Lord William had fallen head over heels for. The same logic applied in Skyhold just as it had in Haven: they could not leave Annreth vulnerable to her uncle’s power-mad machinations. She would not allow them to.

So Evelyn boxed up and put away both her childish fears and longing for her parents, and her far more mature needs. She would have to make her own comfort, learn to take solace from friendships as sustaining enough to carry her through. It left her with a lot of time to sit in her own head, not to mention a great deal of sexual frustration, but she was just going to have to get used to it. 

Or work really hard to distract herself. That was always an option. And absolutely not what she intended as she set out to find the Commander and inquire about settling the barracks. Not at all. 

She would roll her eyes at herself, but she had it on maternal authority they’d get stuck that way. 

Evelyn found him at last in the lower courtyard, near the stables. He’d set up a makeshift desk on which a number of scouts and captains were leaving various bits of correspondence. She paused for a moment, assessing the bustle about her. One might assume it was chaos, but everyone had a purpose in their movements. Even those taking a rest were using it to eat or work at different stretches that Cullen and Bull had put together - cobbled from both Templar and Qunari training to reduce repetitive injuries and keep muscles limber. 

Bull had been the one to teach her on the road, and a young Orlesian Templar by the name of Lysette back at Haven. That didn’t stop her mind from conjuring images of it being the Commander’s firm hands readjusting her legs and pressing against the small of her back to balance her. Evelyn closed her eyes and imagined herself literally throttling her libido before opening them again. 

It did not help, even a little bit, that Cullen was no longer in his formal plate and mantle. Instead, he’d donned a quilted wool tunic similar to those she’d seen on Templars when not in full plate. Yet it was just different enough to mark it as independent. Green wool instead of blue, wine-colored linen undershirt just showing beneath the undone fastenings of his collar. Simple light leather belt and fastenings with burnt orange sash beneath. The colors of the Inquisition soldiers. No pauldrons or vambraces, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. 

She felt a little reassured by the casual dress, as she herself had opted for the practicality of her clean set of traveling leathers. They were flattering as well, with a snug bodice and crimson sash bound around her waist and knotted in an elegantly complicated tie. It normally held a multitude of hidden knives, but this morning she’d only tucked in three. A crisp, white linen undershirt and simple leather bracers in the same light and supple doe hide as her trousers and bodice completed her look, not that she’d spent that much time on it, naturally. 

Even if she had coiled her usual plait up around her head, it was simply because she wanted the hair out of her way. It had nothing to do with making her neck look longer and more feminine. Of course, the Inquisitor should look the part, as Josephine had kindly pointed out. It was no matter at all if she overheard Leliana whisper that she hadn’t cleaned up as well for  _ their _ meeting. 

“Our meeting was at midnight, on the top of the east battlement,” Evelyn had replied to Leliana’s delighted giggle. “The bear fur seemed entirely appropriate.”

“You’re only annoyed that I didn’t rescue your rug,” the spymaster drawled.

Playing along, she’d sighed dramatically. “I know! It’s tragic. Dreadfully disappointing of you. I’ll have to drag everyone back to Hafter’s Woods so Cassandra can kill another one. It won’t have the same meaning unless it wakes up Solas and causes Varric to lose his mind, though.”

“Absolutely  _ not _ , lethallan, do not even think it.” The tired resignation in Solas’s voice as it carried out of the rotunda had sent all three of them into a fit of laughter. 

Josephine had scurried off with promises of private quarters - and a private bath, which she was immensely excited about - by the evening. Leliana had given Evelyn a look, but had kindly removed herself before making further comments on her wardrobe. Aside from a sigh, and a musing that she would have to send to Val Royeaux. For what, Evelyn still had no idea and wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. 

Besides, she’d send for things from Annreth soon enough. Maker knew she had enough to satisfy even Vivienne’s sartorial eye. Mostly masculine clothes adapted to a female form, but a few decent gowns and day dresses. She never wore them, but her mother would still insist on having them made. Her mother missed the days when Evelyn loved her pretty dresses, she knew, but that Evelyn had been gone a very long time. Thirteen years, in fact. 

Still, she looked good in her leathers and was vain enough to appreciate it. It let her walk with more confidence than she felt, otherwise. A different sort of armor, she supposed. That’s what Vivienne would call it. 

And in the face of the absurdly handsome Commander, a little extra confidence couldn’t hurt. Not that his looks had anything to do with it. Maker, she was never going to get through this if she kept getting tripped up in her own thoughts. She was grateful for the brisk air as it gave the perfect cover story for any high color in her cheeks. 

He looked up as she approached and gave her a small smile. “Inquisitor,” he greeted. 

Evelyn returned the smile. “It still sounds odd, don’t you think? ‘Inquisitor Trevelyan’.”

“Not at all,” he answered. A scout appeared over his shoulder and Cullen handed off a report with only a quick glance and nod at the man. 

She snorted softly. “Is that the official line?”

“Yes, but you know it’s more than that. You deserve it, and you are more than worthy of it.” He looked up again. “It’s a heavy burden, I know, but we are with you. Haven was a trial for all of us, but it’s never been more clear that you are the one to lead us forward. I trust you.” 

She swallowed and looked away. It took her a few tries, but eventually she was able to speak without it sounding too hoarse. “Thank you. I…” she paused and ran a hand over her face. “I saw the casualty report.” 

His grim expression mirrored hers. “I hope you also saw that for every person we lost, you saved three more. It doesn’t mitigate the pain of those losses, but it could have and would have been far worse without your courage.”

“And the Chancellor’s memory,” she added. “Cassandra’s arranged for his ashes to be sent back to Val Royeaux. He had family there. There was a time I thought I’d be almost grateful for his sudden removal from our lives, but...not like this. Not after he saved us.” 

“I know,” he agreed. “I feel the same. But, Inquisitor...Evelyn.  _ Evie _ ,” he all but pleaded when she would not look at him. Rarely did he use the shortened nickname, but he’d said it once in training, and it sort of stuck between them. The way he said it, the way his voice wrapped around it...it was a term that belonged only to them, in that ring, where they were equals and comrades.

He took her hand and squeezed it briefly. “You saved us. The Chancellor showed us a way, but we would not have survived without you. Watching you walk away…” He shook his head and his eyes shifted, focusing on something not in sight. “That was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do, and I swear to you, what happened at Haven will not happen again.”

“I’m only glad that you survived. That so many of you survived, I mean. I…” She looked away when he turned back to her. “I would do it again.”  _ For you. _

Cullen was so silent for a long moment that she was terrified she’d voiced the last part aloud. She had to force herself to look back at him. “I have never been so grateful for anything as I am for your survival,” he said at last. His voice was low, raspy, as though he pushed past as much emotion as she felt stirring in her chest. Oh, this was dangerous, but Maker help her, there was no turning away from him. “When I found you in the snow...you stayed behind, you…”

The instinct to reach out to him, to touch his hand, his arm, his face; it was nearly overwhelming. But they were not alone, and this...whatever this was...this thread of something between them was tenuous and fragile. She hadn’t meant for it to be given voice, but it seemed they both had been drawn to it as inexorably as moths to flame. 

Damn it all, this was the exact opposite of what she’d set out to do. Wasn’t it? She had such a difficult time minding her tongue with him; words just floated out of her. Words she had no idea were even within her, giving shape to feelings she hardly recognized. If he hadn’t once been a Templar, she’d almost believe he’d enchanted her. 

“Do you know what you said to me, when I found you?” he asked. His voice was low, for her ears alone.

Did she? Of course. It was the only reason she’d fought to stay conscious. “‘It heard me’,” she told him, her own voice barely above a whisper.

The way he looked at her sent her heart racing. It was different from the way the soldiers looked at her, but no less proud, no less trusting. The warmth in it felt like sunlight. Evelyn could have sworn she stood just a little taller under that gaze. The smile that spread over his lips lit up his face, and it very nearly hurt her physically to look at him. 

_ Shit _ , this was worse than she’d thought. This was not something she had experience in, it was more than just physical attraction. She thought. Maybe? Oh, Void take it all. 

“I wanted to ask,” he spoke, and she snapped her attention from his lips up to his eyes. That wasn’t any less distracting, unfortunately. “Did you say anything in particular that it heard, or was it just inarticulate rage?”

Evelyn arched an eyebrow with every ounce of imperiousness from her childhood deportment lessons. “I’ll have you know, Commander, that my rage is astonishingly articulate.” 

The smile widened to a grin. “And just what did you articulate, Inquisitor?”

A laugh bubbled up and she had to look away lest it erupt, but it was too late. She gave a most unladylike snort. He was waiting patiently when she turned back to him. She sucked in a breath and waved a dismissive hand. Her cheeks were definitely burning. “I, er, that is.” Evelyn cleared her throat.

“Yes?”

“I may, possibly, have told it to, ah,  _ eat shit _ .” 

Cullen’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he let out an astonished huff. “You did what now?”

She rolled her eyes impatiently and waved both her hands. “He threw me against the trebuchet, I stood up and saw the signal, yelled at him to eat shit, then threw myself on the trigger, after which I tumbled down the hill and into an old mining shaft.” 

He tilted his head back and laughed, long and heartily, and it was as welcome a sound as it was surprising. Soldiers paused in their duties and shot each other astonished looks before they snapped back to it, lest he catch them idle. “Maker’s breath,” he gasped, wiping a tear out of his eye. “You...you told…”

“I told an apparent Magister Sidereal, a monster out of every Andrastian’s nightmare, to eat shit, yes. I did. In fairness, I was pretty sure  _ I  _ was going to get eaten by that dragon.”

“You,” he continued, catching his breath, “you  _ cannot  _ tell Varric. Promise me. If that makes it into whatever shitshow of a book he’s going to inevitably write about this…”

She had to fight another laugh down. “Oh, trust me, he’s far too busy cataloguing hills I’ve slid down and hurt myself on out in the Storm Coast. He tells me his chronicle is going to be called  _ The Hills the Herald Didn’t Die On _ .”

They both laughed again. “Still,” he conceded, “you know Varric’s only still here so he can mine us all for his next series, so be careful.”

“You give yourself too much credit, Curly.” 

Before Evelyn could even register Varric’s voice, another, unfamiliar one added, “Oh, I don’t know, Varric, weren’t you going to put him into  _ Swords & Shields _ at one point?”

Cullen spun around, eyes wide. “ _ Hawke?! _ ”

Evelyn turned in surprise. Beside Varric stood a tall woman with coal black hair that fell rakishly across her face. She was prettier than she’d been described in the book, but also taller and broader. Her lovely face sat atop a body that was well toned and used to wielding a sword. Blue eyes that brimmed with intelligence and wit met hers. Seeing her now, Evelyn had little trouble believing that this was the Champion of Kirkwall who’d defeated the Arishok in single combat. 

Hawke wasn’t wearing plate, but her clothes were simple and dark, made for traveling. The cloak she wore was pinned with a stylized burnished gold crest of two intertwined raptors. It matched the signet ring on her hand. While she wasn’t necessarily announcing her identity, she wasn’t hiding it, either. Leliana had to know the Champion was at Skyhold.

Which begged the question…

“Varric,” Cullen said slowly, “does Cassandra know Hawke is here?”

Hawke looked amused at Varric’s discomfort. “Ah, no, Curly. Not yet.” 

Cullen and Evelyn traded looks. “You better run, Varric,” Evelyn told him. 

He shrugged, resigned. “She’d catch me. You’ve seen those legs of hers. Dwarf or not, there’s no outrunning her.” 

“My, my, Varric,” Hawke drawled, “any more talk of the Seeker’s legs and Bianca will get jealous. Hullo, Cullen. Good to see you out of armor. And out of the Order, I hear?”

“Firmly,” Cullen answered. “It’s good to see you standing, Marian. Where’s Fenris? We might need to keep him away from Dorian,” Cullen added softly, to Evelyn.

Hawke held up a hand. “No need to hide your apostates, he’s not here.” 

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “Does he know that  _ you’re _ here?”

The Champion shifted. “I hardly think you’re the one to dispense judgement and relationship advice.”

“I am the Commander of the Inquisition forces and responsible for our defenses,” Cullen told her. “As such, if a furious Fenris is going to tear down the gate I just had four blacksmiths repairing in a fit of pique at you, I’d like to know. It takes time to place requisitions for everite-reinforced iron.” 

Hawke blinked. “Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?” She turned to Varric. “Did Cullen Rutherford just make a joke?” Her eyes met Evelyn’s. “What have you done to him?”

Evelyn shrugged nonchalantly. “One time I knocked the wind out of him with his own shield.” 

“She did,” he confirmed when Hawke smirked at him. 

“Listen,” Varric interrupted, shifting uncomfortably, “this is charming and all, but I asked Hawke to risk coming here for a reason. We need to talk,” he told Evelyn. “Privately, if possible.” 

Evelyn glanced at Cullen and he motioned to the ramparts. “That’s your best bet. We’re focusing on groundworks and barracks rooms first. The upper levels haven’t really been touched apart from establishing guard rotations and arms stores. You’ll find an empty room or two on the south and west towers. We’ll talk later, Inquisitor?”

“Of course,” she told him. “Thank you, Commander.” 

Cullen turned to go, but shot a look at Varric first. “I’ll buy you what time I can.”

“Thanks, Curly.” 

...

  
  


Evelyn was silent when Hawke and Varric finished their tale of Corypheus. Varric looked concerned, but Hawke watched her quietly. 

Her mind spun, fitting pieces together. Grey Wardens, Corypheus’s mysterious ability to survive where he shouldn’t…

“Blight,” she said at last. “It always comes back to the Blight and how little we understand it.”

Hawke and Varric only stared at her. She unfolded her legs from where she sat on an overturned old bookcase, and leaned back against the recessed window alcove. The stone was cool and reassuring behind her head. “You thought you killed him, sure. But he also shouldn’t have survived the explosion that destroyed the Conclave. Nothing should have. I only survived by getting pulled through a rift somehow and into the Fade, physically. We know he didn’t, so he survived some other way. That dragon...I don’t think it’s a real archdemon. He needs an army, and in a terrifying glimpse of a future where I failed to stop him, he had an army of demons and red-lyrium corrupted Templars. We’ve seen the Templars, but not the demons, not yet. I took his mages, apparently, so that was probably a setback in that regard. I hope. If that was a real archdemon, there’d be an army of darkspawn and he wouldn’t need the demons. But somehow that dragon is corrupted, by Blight and by red lyrium. It smelled like darkspawn.” 

Hawke grunted. “That’s not an odor one forgets.”

“No,” Evelyn agreed. “No, it is not. You have more firsthand experience, but yes. Even one encounter is enough to engrave that in a person’s memory.”

“I’d always thought the one advantage in being a surface dwarf was never having to know what a darkspawn smelled like,” Varric muttered. “Well, that and the ability to get a good tan.” 

“Your delicate dwarf skin wouldn’t know a sun tan if it rolled up and smacked it.” 

“Unfair, Hawke, unfair. But true.” He left them with a word about how they should get acquainted. She had a sneaking suspicion he was going to find Cassandra and force the confrontation, to buy Hawke time to leave unbothered. 

Evelyn looked at the Champion. “You said you were headed to Crestwood? I’ll meet you there. You should at least stay the night, however. We can find you a room where you’ll be unbothered, get a good meal in you. I’ll keep you away from Cassandra and Leliana if you prefer.” 

Hawke relaxed a little. “Thank you, that would be welcome. I know I should...I know I should talk to them, but…”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Evelyn said, “and I only know what’s in the book. That’s enough, though, to give anyone pause in wanting to get involved in this insanity. Your sister, is she safe? I won’t ask where she is, but I hope you know that should she require help or protection, you have only to ask. Mages are our allies, not our charges, and I will have them willing and free if they are here.” 

The Champion smiled, a little. “Yes, she is safe, for now. Thank you. Varric said you were wise beyond your years, but I didn’t really believe him.” 

Evelyn snorted. “I don’t know that it’s wisdom, it’s just what’s right. I stopped giving a damn what people thought of me a long time ago.” 

“What, were you two?” Hawke teased.

“Ten,” Evelyn told her. “I killed a darkspawn that killed my cousin with my bare hands and a rock, and then my uncle locked me in the dark in a wine cellar until it could be proved I hadn’t been infected with the Blight. I broke my fingers to get out of the chains, and then clawed open a window to crawl out of. I spent most of the rest of my youth fighting and killing with another uncle’s mercenary band to keep me protected and safe. So, no, I don’t care who’s in my way or who doesn’t like it when I stand up against what’s wrong in the world, frankly. Everyone whose opinions I cared for either taught me right from wrong in the first place, or died at the Conclave explosion.” 

Hawke blinked. “I...damn.”

“Yeah. So, would you care to spar later?”

“Maker, yes. I am sore as hell from the road.” Hawke held out a hand and Evelyn took it, gladly. “For what it’s worth, Varric speaks highly of you. That was enough for me. I trust his opinion above all others. But he was right: I like you, and I think you’re the best hope we have of fixing all this mess. You’re already smarter than I was.” 

“Well, I do have the advantage of, you know, not being in Kirkwall.”

Hawke laughed, and Evelyn could see what drew people to the Champion. There was an energy around her, a charm. But there was also a wildness, a desperation. She’d suffered, and horribly, over and over and over again. Like a curse. Something in that reminded her of Solas. Evelyn wondered if that kind of repeated loss simply grew the fatalism and prickly distance she could sense in both of them. Like armor. 

It was a wonder Cullen hadn’t wrapped himself in layers of it. Evelyn had read Leliana’s report on his history. Kirkwall was well known, of course. But before that...not many details were known of the fall of Kinloch Hold during the Blight, but whatever had happened, Cullen had been the sole Templar survivor. It must have been horrendous. 

Or maybe he had, she thought, but had simply cracked it open for her. Unintentionally. Maker knew she felt him slide behind her own defenses easily enough. 

She parted from Hawke after giving her directions to the south tower barracks. It would be nondescript enough in the chaos of settling in that few would seek her there. Quite an interesting test it would be to see if her authority could keep Leliana and Cassandra away from the Champion. They claimed to see her as more than a figurehead, but when it came down to something like this? 

Shouting drew her attention, and she saw Scout Harding exit the building they’d claimed as the armory. The scout caught her eye. “Inquisitor! You might want to-”

Raised voices reached her. Ah, so Varric and Cassandra had found each other, then. 

“At least we haven’t unloaded all the weapons carts yet,” Evelyn responded wryly. “Thank you, Scout Harding. Pray for me?”

The dwarf snorted delicately. “Always, Your Worship.” They both glanced upward as a thud sounded and a barrage of swearing rained down. “Good luck?”

  
  



	18. Trust Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone gets a little heart-to-heart time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Elvhen outside of what's directly translated in the games is completely invention, cobbled together from various online wikis to suit a narrative need.

It was her favorite hour at Haven, when the sun was close to setting. It bathed the town and the snow in a warm golden light. Winters in Ostwick were more wet than frozen, and altogether brief. While Evelyn could do without the caked mud when the snows thawed between storms, she had to admit there was something appealing and peaceful about the deep stillness of a proper Fereldan winter. 

Solas walked beside her. They were inside the Chantry, discussing the past and how he’d found her. 

Now outside, they wandered, staring up at the green maelstrom of the Breach. “When you closed the rift with a gesture, the very world shifted. It has been a long time since anything astonished me so.” 

“A blatant disregard for my own well being tends to have that effect on people.”

Solas tossed her a look. “You underestimate yourself. No matter what those in your past have told you, whatever harms your uncle has done you, you  _ are  _ worthy, Evelyn.” He took her chin in his long fingers and made her meet his eyes. “The mark you bear is a power unlike anything known in this Age, let alone the Ages before it. Yet you not only survived the transfer of its power, you command it. I wonder why you cannot tell how extraordinary that is. How extraordinary  _ you _ are.” 

He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead as she began to cry. “Trust yourself, lethallan. Trust your heart.” 

Solas held her calmly while she cried against him. She was surprised with herself at just how easy it was to let go of those fears, that pain. His calming presence helped, certainly. Evelyn pulled back and mastered herself, hiccupping only slightly. He smiled gently at her and wiped away a last tear from her cheek. “ _ Emma elgarlin _ .”

Evelyn sniffed and stepped away. “I’m not familiar with that phrase. Something about a blood spirit?” 

He laughed. “You should know by now never to directly translate Elvhen. It is a term of endearment, that is all.  _ We are the same _ . I meant what I said,” he added. “Trust yourself. You are far stronger than you know. After all, it should well be impossible for you to find me here and yet you have.”

She frowned. “Here?” She looked around at where they stood outside Adan’s cabin in Haven.

In Haven.

Which was buried under half a mountain of snow, ice, and rock. “This isn’t real.”

“A matter of some debate,” Solas countered. “Perhaps best saved for when you  _ wake up _ .” 

_ Wake up. _

Evelyn started awake, eyes snapping open. She stared, disoriented. A bed, large and warm. A hearth. A desk in an alcove of bookshelves. A hearth. Enormous windows showing the Frostbacks beyond.

Skyhold. She was in Skyhold. Haven was gone. She’d been dreaming, only not precisely. She recalled wanting to speak to Solas and resolving to do so first thing in the morning. That had obviously carried over to her dream, but to walk the Fade with him? She’d only ever heard of mages being able to consciously manipulate the Fade and enter it, and even that was rare without copious amounts of lyrium and preparation. 

That she had apparently either done so or simply had a really vivid dream remained to be seen. 

She threw back the blankets and only cursed mildly at the chill. Her things had yet to arrive from Ostwick, but she’d found a merchant caravan en route from Val Royeaux to Denerim and bought a few things to tide her over. Most of their clothing was decidedly Orlesian, which Evelyn wouldn’t be caught dead in if she could help it. Puffy doublets were not to her Marcher taste. They did have a few items that were meant for commoners, but they suited Evelyn decently enough and she’d bought the lot. Alterations were easy, after all. 

It was surprising to find that she’d missed needlework. She’d never minded it, even loved it as a child. Out with the Hunters, they all had to mend their own gear, and it had been a time of bonding around the campfire as they all pulled needle and thread and passed around whiskey. It inevitably ended with someone sewing something onto what they were actually still wearing by accident, and bets sprung up as to whose seams would fail first in the next combat. 

Sewing helped quiet her mind by the hearthfire at night, keeping her from musing too deeply on her fears. She’d even dug up a few embroidery stitches out of her memory and sewn the Inquisition insignia on a few of the linen tunics. The end result was a handful of simple but fitted and no-nonsense tunics that were still flattering and could be worn under a number of her leather bodices and vests. 

She threw one on now after a quick wash. Blue, and soft. With the addition of a structured bodice and a scarf of Inquisition burgundy, it would do. It was too cold to tie her hair up, so around her shoulders it remained in red-brown waves. Its length was excellent for keeping her neck warm, as was the gray over-cloak she fastened to her, belting it around the waist with the ceremonial Inquisition sword belt. 

Thus prepared for her day, she went off to find Solas. Again. 

He was in the rotunda where she expected him to be, as he’d set up a small study there, in amongst painting supplies. At this point, Evelyn thought she ought to stop being surprised by the elf, but there was always something new. Such as his apparent skill and artistry with a paintbrush. 

The style was simplified when compared to the high art that was popular, but it was elegant and geometric. Its simplicity was deceiving; upon closer inspection, complexity greeted the eye with allegory buried in color and form. It was utterly beautiful and completely unlike anything she’d ever seen before. She loved it.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, but finished the brush strokes before turning around. They looked at each other for a few uncertain moments, but finally Evelyn reached out with one finger and poked Solas square in the chest. He reeled back, blinking in surprise.

“Just checking.” 

And with that, the spell was broken. He chuckled and wiped off the brush he held with a rag. “I take it you slept well?” he asked, smirking and cocking an eyebrow at her. 

She folded her arms. “That was...I have never...how…”

He shrugged slightly. “To be entirely honest, I have no idea. The mark, somehow. Its energy manipulates the Veil, but it is magic and draws on the energy in the Fade. As you absorb more of it into yourself, it could be altering you.”

Evelyn frowned. “That sounds...dangerous.”

“It most certainly is,” he agreed with surprising nonchalance. “Though not as dangerous at the moment as Corypheus.” 

“Point taken.” 

He reached past her for a pot of black paint. “I must apologize for my presumption, Inquisitor.”

“Not my name.” 

“Titles are important.”

“Well all right then, Apostate Painter.” 

He shook his head. “You are utterly impossible,” he told her, laughing slightly. “Yet, still, I should not have presumed to put a name to our friendship. Or even to assume friendship. We are comrades in arms, truly, but it need not be anything beyond that.” 

“I’m not certain what you are even apologizing for. Unless what you called me was an insult? Even then, ‘blood spirit’ doesn’t seem all that bad. Macabre, perhaps, but possibly not inaccurate.” She grinned. “I  _ am _ pretty deadly.” 

“Nevertheless,” Solas interrupted, throwing her a look, “I feel I should explain.” He perched on the end of the desk he’d set up, leaning against it and twirling the clean paint brush in his hand. “Amongst the people I come from, relationships are more...complex than you are accustomed to. Family is both blood and more than blood. Occasionally, one might meet someone who is resonant to them in a way few others are, but it is something often greater and deeper than a sexual attraction. There are no words for it in the Common Tongue that could translate it from Elvhen, and even many Dalish would not understand the true meaning of it.” He shrugged slightly. “At its heart, it means something akin to ‘twin of my soul’, though far less poetic than it sounds. Or more poetic. I suppose it depends largely on the poet. It is both evocative of a strong feeling that is not relegated to romantic love, but also as simply as acknowledging a sameness of spirit.” 

Evelyn studied him silently. It was not an admission of love in a great romantic sense, not that she would ever have expected or looked for that from Solas. Yet he was right. There was something that connected them, as though she’d known him all her life. A meeting of minds, the feeling of always being in sync, communicating beyond words. Even as she knew so little about him,  _ she knew him _ . “That’s...beautiful.” 

“Oddly enough,” he added, “the Qunari have a word that encompasses some of it. In their rigidity, they somehow create unexpected spaces for complexity.”

“ _ Kadan _ ,” she said. “Bull talked about this. Since Qunari don’t have marriage in the same sense as humans, dwarves, and elves, they developed different, more nuanced terms to name those they’re fond of. It never applies to a lover under the Qun, I gather. In his words ‘Qunari love our friends, we just don’t have sex with them.’”

Solas laughed. “That is a remarkably accurate impersonation.” 

“I forgot to flex my biceps while I was saying it, though.”

“You will improve with practice.” 

She sat on the edge of the desk beside him and nudged his shoulder. “Thank you, Solas, and you have nothing to apologize for. You’ve become important to me, but it’s...difficult to say precisely how. It’s nice to have a framework for it. ‘Friend’ seems too simple, ‘lover’ not accurate, and ‘family’ still somehow inadequate.” She shrugged. “It’s nice to know the confusion isn’t only mine, and that it’s a constriction of language and culture that makes it feel odd.” 

“I care for you, lethallan, and I respect you. That is enough.” 

“More than enough, Solas,” she agreed. He gave her another of those rare smiles that came from somewhere behind his reserve, pleased and proud. 

He threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand briefly. “I am pleased you understand. Now,” he continued, giving back her hand and reaching for a new brush, “if there’s anything you wish to discuss, I am reasonably certain we are both awake. I did want to address those odd shards we found. They’re keystones for certain, and I think I might know where the temple is. Look at that stack of correspondence on the left, there. It caught up with us just last evening. I’d written to a few scholars outside of Markham. The Circle there had possession of a few interesting tomes, but they disappeared when it fell. One of them the Lady Ambassador managed to recover at an auction, and it describes something similar to our keystones from the Frostback Basin.” 

That insatiable sense of curiosity that he always managed to stir up in her came awake. “Really?” Evelyn pulled the stack of letters to her as he resumed his work on the mural. She scanned the first letter. “So they are elven, then, like we thought. How odd, though. No other temple ruin ever found from Arlathan - er, Elvhenan, rather - has ever shown anything like these keystones.” She frowned in thought. “I suppose it is overly simplistic to expect that all ancient elves were alike. After all, Ferelden is as different from Orlais as Orlais is from Tevinter and as each Free Marches city is different from each other. Even within an empire, one would have different regions and different cultures fitting together. Do you think this could have something to do with Dirthamen?” 

Solas paused. “What makes you say that?”

“Wasn’t he supposed to be the god of secrets or something? I know admittedly little of the elven pantheon, but it would seem to align with the secretiveness of hiding these keystones.”

“Hmm,” he pondered. “Perhaps.” 

She continued flipping through the letters. “An oasis out in the Western Approach. That sounds like someplace Dorian would hate to go. I’ll have to take him.” 

“I suppose,” Solas mused, “I shall have to acquire a hat.”

…

Cullen found Varric hiding on his roof. More accurately, he found Varric when the dwarf nearly fell through a half-obscured hole in a rotting board. “Maker’s breath, Curly,” he said, looking down, “you’re not actually putting your bedroom over your office, are you?”

Cullen blinked up at the dwarf’s upside down head hanging through his ceiling. Many years in Kirkwall had taught him that Varric Tethras might look like the average dwarf, but he could move like shadows and hadn’t yet met a lock he couldn’t pick. It wasn’t precisely a surprise to find him somewhere he had no reason to be, but since joining the Inquisition Tethras had become a little more serious and a little less...well. Scoundrel. He supposed Hawke was still at Skyhold, however, and when the two of them were together, mischief and mayhem could never be far away. 

“Er, no. Not as such. Not the official quarters, but I’ll be here late enough that a spare bed will be welcome some nights.” He shrugged. “Besides, you know I don’t care for confined spaces and the quarters in the east wing are rather...small.” 

Varric dropped down with that surprising grace that rarely showed itself outside of the sparring ring and combat. “Yeah, I remember from that Void-ridden boat ride that I never want to think about again, so thanks for that.” 

Cullen went back to maneuvering furniture into position. The tower he’d selected for his official office was a central location with three entrances, but a nice loft above with space enough for a spare bed, trunk, and a few other items. Varric had read correctly that he would most likely be sleeping in here more often than not, but what he’d said was true...he hated confined spaces, and it was far lighter and more open here in the tower. And he’d never be far away from what he needed. 

Varric picked up a book that Cullen had set down and grinned. “Did you like the latest chapter of  _ Serpents on the Storm Coast _ ?”

“Not bad,” he admitted, laughing. “I don’t like it as much as  _ Hard in Hightown _ , but it was nice to not be reminded of Kirkwall. Certainly better than  _ Swords & Shields _ .”

“When did you ever read that romance serial? Are you a secret romantic, Curly?”

“You wouldn’t believe what circulated the barracks in Kirkwall, Varric, nor what one would read out of sheer and utter boredom.” 

“And a refusal to go to the Blooming Rose and ease that boredom a little,” Varric observed. “You know Isabela referred to you as Knight-Captain Stick-Up-His-Arse.” 

Cullen snorted. “Isabela referred to me as a lot of things. Was I meant to keep track?”

Varric shook his head and chuckled, taking a seat on the trunk Cullen had dumped in the corner. “Maker’s breath, weren’t you even a little tempted by that Rivaini minx? I was, and I’m in a committed relationship.”

He blinked and looked at Varric over his shoulder. “With your  _ crossbow _ .” 

The dwarf smirked. “Something like that, sure. But that’s not the point.”

“What the Void  _ is  _ the point?”

“You,” Varric answered, waving at Cullen. “You’re all wound up tighter than a nug’s arse. That can’t just be your natural state.” 

“Varric,” Cullen asked slowly, mouth twitching despite his irritation, “how in the Maker’s name do you know how tight a nug’s arse even is?”

A burst of appreciative laughter sounded from the office below, and Cullen turned away from Varric before the dwarf could see the high color that bloomed in his cheeks at the sound. He recognized that laugh. Evelyn. 

“Yes, Varric,” drawled Hawke’s voice directly below them as she climbed up the ladder, “do tell. Or better yet, please never tell.”

Hawke stood and offered a hand to Evelyn behind her. The Inquisitor looked a little less formal than she had earlier, sans her cloak and sword belt. Cullen was suddenly quite conscious that he only stood in his own linen undershirt and trousers, having discarded the cloak, plate, and padded leather jerkin of his uniform on the bed. 

Why in the Maker’s name were all of these people suddenly in what was for all intents and purposes his bedroom? 

He was absolutely not, in any way, shape, or form, going to think about the Inquisitor in his bed. Room. Bedroom. Maker’s breath.

“Forgive us the intrusion, Commander,” Evelyn said smoothly, though she was studiously not looking at him. He grabbed his jerkin and threw it on over the undershirt, figuring an extra layer wouldn’t hurt. He didn’t mind the cold, but it was a little chilly. The tower didn’t have a hearth, and he hadn’t bothered to haul up a coal brazier yet since the temperature was better for his headaches. “Hawke is leaving tomorrow morning, and we were looking for Varric.”

“I was hiding from the Seeker.” 

“In Cullen’s bedroom?” Hawke asked, eyes dancing with mirth. 

“Technically, he was on the roof.” Cullen pointed to the hole in the ceiling. “Not altogether a bad choice, as it happens. Cassandra tends to avoid me when she’s in the wrong about something. As I do her. I suppose neither of us likes to admit when we’re mistaken.” 

Evelyn took a bottle Hawke drew out from her cloak and uncorked it. Cullen could smell the spirits from where he stood. She took a swig and grimaced, and he was reminded of the mercenary she used to be rather than the leader of a heretical world-saving movement she was now. It was...nice. To remember that she was a person.

A woman. A really beautiful woman. 

“Good thing I’m never wrong,” she said with a wink. 

A really beautiful woman he was probably going to throttle one of these days. He leveled a look at her, one he knew made recruits quake in their boots and she giggled. She  _ giggled _ . 

Varric took a drink when she handed the bottle over to him. Hawke pushed Cullen’s armor aside and sat unceremoniously on his bed while Evelyn perched on the window ledge. He caught his cloak as Hawke kicked it out of her way and swatted her with it. “Wretch,” he complained. “Do you ever stop being a brat?”

Hawke stuck out her tongue. “I don’t have to be nice to you anymore, you know.” 

“When were you ever nice to me?” Cullen protested. 

She blew a raspberry at him. “I was helpful!”

“You were a pain in the ass!” He ran a hand over his face. “Bloody Hawke family trait, if you ask me. The number of times I had to cover for Bethany sneaking out of Orsino’s office in the dead of night...Ah, Maker. Sorry. I’m an ass, Marian.”

Hawke shrugged listlessly with one shoulder. “We all have our failings, Cullen. You couldn’t be that pretty and not have a fatal flaw somewhere. You let Bethany go, with me. I will forever be in your debt for that.” 

A tap at his shoulder revealed the questionable bottle in Evelyn’s outstretched hand. He sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose, but took a small sip anyway. It was strong, which was really all that could be said of it. Dwarven, probably from the still that engineer thought he’d hidden. “I thought you didn’t have to be nice to me?”

“Now, that’s funny,” Varric drawled, taking the bottle out of Cullen’s hand. “I could have bet money on you being the type to  _ not  _ like it when women are nice to you. You being such a fan of discipline and all.”

“Oh no, now that’s not right, Varric,” Hawke all but purred. “You’ve heard him out in that training yard. He likes  _ giving _ the orders, not taking them. Perhaps he’s creative in his punishments?”

Behind him, Evelyn made a sound somewhere between choking and gasping, only with far more laughter. Cullen wiped a hand over his face, thankful for the dim candlelight that hid the blushing. “Inquisitor,” he hissed at her in annoyance, “if you die in my quarters from choking on Gatsi’s rotgut because Hawke and Varric have less sense and maturity than a pair of fifteen year old recruits, I will be severely disappointed.” 

“See?!” Hawke cried, waving her hands demonstratively at Cullen. Varric practically howled, and Evelyn was doubled up over his shoulder snorting in his ear. 

“Out, both of you!” Cullen yelled, half-serious, half-playful. Not for the first time, he thought of how differently things might have gone in Kirkwall had he trusted them more fully. Had he believed them. Not just Hawke, but the others, as well. And had he not been such a monumental ass at the time. 

Cassandra wouldn’t hesitate to point out the fault of lyrium in a number of his regrets, but while it was certainly a factor...who could he be, if not responsible for his own actions and beliefs? That was not a way to live. He would not put blame on others that belonged on his shoulders alone. 

He sighed. “I’ll see you before you depart tomorrow, Marian,” he added more gently. “I should have intelligence coming in overnight that will be useful to you.”

“I’ll follow within the week,” Evelyn added. “We’ll send you with one of Leliana’s best birds so you can locate us on the road should you need faster assistance. I still don’t know how she trains them that way.”

“Ravens recognize faces,” Cullen told her absently. Her eyes practically lit up in delight, and it was certainly not doing anything to his insides. 

“Really?” She hiccupped, and he realized she probably had more than one sip out of that bottle before even reaching the tower he’d claimed. She was, after all, closer to him and more casual with her touch than she normally was outside of the training ring. She hopped down out of the window and turned to Varric. “Cass has cooled off a bit. You’re safe.” 

Hawke reached for the ladder, but Varric paused and raised an eyebrow. “You...ah, you…” Varric cleared his throat, but couldn’t wipe the smirk off his face. “You  _ coming _ , Stabs?”

“OUT!” Cullen roared, but Evelyn beat him to the punch. 

“You troublemaker!” she cried over the dwarf’s protest, laughing. “No, imp, I’m waiting on the same intelligence Cullen is, and another report from the Storm Coast that just arrived. Scouts think they’ve located the entry route of the darkspawn there, so I’ll need to assign a team to close it. Hawke met me en route here and told me I looked like I needed a drink.”

“To be fair, everyone looks like they need a drink to Hawke,” Varric replied. 

“Go!” Cullen ordered, as he and Evelyn followed them down the ladder to the more comfortable office. He kept it a little warmer out of respect for others, even if he preferred the cold. It was also a far more appropriate place for the Inquisitor to have a discussion with her Commander. 

Not that he wanted to have a discussion. What he wanted was to lock all three doors, push Evelyn against the wall, and kiss her until she was more senseless than any drink could make her. The candles were brighter and cleaner down in his office, and their light danced in her eyes, the warm glow from the brazier bathing her skin and hair. A golden spirit wreathed in fire, like the statue of Andraste in the local Chantry he had loved so as a boy, certain no real woman could ever command his heart as She did.

Evelyn Trevelyan commanded far more than his heart.

_ Stand down, man _ , he told himself firmly.  _ Get a hold of yourself. You are not some feckless out-of-control youth. _

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had such difficulty mastering himself, especially with a woman. No, that was untrue. He could. He could and that thought was enough to douse any ardor in ice. 

_ Kinloch Hold. Solonna Amell. Such a sweet soul, kind. A mastery of healing and a gentle touch. Not even the most stringent Templar minded going to her for healing. His joy when she passed her Harrowing quickly and masterfully. Her smile, the courage she gathered to approach him, the hurt in her eyes when he turned away that was so quickly masked. The deep sadness that had lingered around her after. _

_ Dead and broken in his arms. Murdered by blood magic and her refusal to submit. Resurrected in a Desire demon sent to drive him mad. Dead again, rotting on the floor.  _

_ Anything you love,  _ Meredith had told him _ , can be used to hurt you. Love nothing but duty, and duty will carry you through. _

He slammed a mental door closed on those memories before fear and panic could take root, but even inebriated the Inquisitor was perceptive. She took a seat across from his desk; a plush armchair purloined from a supply wagon and fixed up, largely with her in mind. Well, and Josephine, of course. Anyone who wasn’t a soldier expected to stand.

In silence she sat, and waited. Her eyes rested on him, with a warmth and compassion he never would have sought for himself. Here it was, freely given. Yet another way in which she was extraordinary, and another way in which he could never deserve her. Her heart, her body, her trust in him as a man, not just a soldier. He was a broken remnant, with only shards of pain to offer.

A question wrote itself on her face, but there was no need to voice it when the answer was as clear in his. No, he was not all right. 

Cullen sat down heavily and inhaled slowly. Minutes passed where the Inquisitor sat patiently while he wrangled and mastered his emotions. He knew, then, there was no delay in telling her the truth. He had meant to, when they decided to name her Inquisitor. It was not something that could or should be hidden any longer. She had to know, had to be able to trust both him and Cassandra fully. 

Into the heavy silence, he cleared his throat and spoke. “Inquisitor. There is something I must tell you. What do you know of Templars and lyrium?”

“Not much, if I’m honest,” she replied, the concern etching itself deeper into her features. “I know it has something to do with your powers, but I’m not sure how. All I know is that it has a different effect on a Templar than a mage, and that difference is what allows a Templar to counteract magic.” 

“In a way, yes. It’s more of a denial, a dissipation, of magic. Its existence refuted, its power throttled. Lyrium is not only what gives Templars their power and stamina, but it also controls emotions and memories. It makes Templars more even-heeled, though that is not always for the better. If someone is mired in hatred before lyrium, it’s not going to improve their disposition. They’re merely going to be more dispassionate in dealing out the effects of their hatred, and they will not be tormented by the memory of it after, as lyrium takes out the sting of such thoughts.” 

He watched the expression on her face change as she processed what he was telling her. “Sweet Maker,” she whispered. 

Cullen swallowed. “That is not all. It...lyrium is addictive. If not consumed regularly, the ill effects are considerable.” 

Evelyn frowned, nodding. “Yes, I know that it’s necessary and can make Templars ill if withheld. That’s why we were worried about Captain Rylen and the others when they were held in the Fallow Mire.”

“It doesn’t just make you sick,” he elaborated. “It can kill, or turn someone mad for its lack. Magic can be dangerous under normal circumstances, and fighting it takes a tremendous determination and intense training. Even when the Circle of Magi was functioning as intended, there were still failed Harrowings, experiments gone wrong, magic backfiring. The Templars were the ones who had to bear the brunt of the fallout, and that in itself created strain and trauma, let alone the things that could happen when a Circle fell.” 

“And what...Templars only dealt with such trauma through lyrium and...prayer? Faith?”

“We were taught repeatedly that faith was the only path to healing, and that faith was only expressed through performing one’s duty to the Circle, and thus to the Chantry and the Maker.” 

She looked ill. “That’s horrendous.” 

“It does not excuse the actions of the Templar Order, especially not after Haven. It doesn’t excuse what happened in Kirkwall, but…”

“It makes a little more sense than it did before. Maker,” she groaned, “the Circle was set up for failure from the very start; it was practically mortared into its structure.” 

Of course she understood. He was almost ashamed that for a moment he feared otherwise. She had offered a free alliance to mages, but he should have known her compassion was large enough for everyone. She had declared it to the whole of the Inquisition, after all. Hawke’s presence had reminded him of those final days in Kirkwall before the Circle fell, when the tensions were so high that the only answer was to pick a side and damn the other. This was not Kirkwall. Evelyn was not Meredith.

“You should know,” he told her, “I have procured a reliable supply of lyrium for the Templars that are in our service. I am working with Grand Enchanter Fiona, Mother Giselle, and Surgeon Marks to develop additional options for physical and emotional trauma to help mitigate the need for high lyrium doses, and hopefully reduce the amount consumed overall.” 

She watched him carefully, and he made himself hold her gaze, even if it was too sharp, too knowing. She had no right to look through him like that, to see underneath his words, especially after a quarter bottle of Maker knew what spirits. “Noble,” she said at last, “and I’m glad for it. But that isn’t everything, is it? Cullen? Have you…”

“I stopped taking it.” 

He watched her processing the information, putting pieces together. His occasional irritability, the headaches, his weakness after fighting the Revenant in the Fallow Mire. He was fairly certain the Iron Bull was aware, and probably Varric as well. Both were spies, after all. Outside of Cassandra and Leliana, however, he had never personally told anyone else. 

“Why?” There was no edge to the question, simply her need to understand.

“I...I couldn’t. Not after everything that happened. When I left the Order, I vowed to leave every vestige of that life behind me. I could not in good conscience continue, knowing what lyrium has cost me, and others by extension. Not when I have so much to atone for, to prove. I have...Cassandra has sworn to watch me, and will recommend a replacement for Commander should it ever come to that. As a Seeker, she’s uniquely suited to assessing my state of withdrawal and health.” 

Evelyn sat forward in the chair and Maker’s breath, the compassion in those eyes stealing the very breath from his lungs. No pity, no judgement, no fear. “I trust you, Cullen.” 

“I know it...it seems foolish. A principle with a high cost, and ultimately one that doesn’t matter in the face of everything we’ve been through and what we still must conquer, but…”

“No,” she countered, and even though he watched as she slid her hand across his desk it still surprised him to feel her fingers close around his. “No, it is not foolish. You are not foolish, far from it. You are braver than any man I know. Your strength humbles me.”

“You’re drunk,” he told her with a small smile.

“I’ll say it sober, too,” she insisted. “I...thank you. For telling me. I know it’s information I must have as Inquisitor, but still...this can’t be easy for you speak of. You have my trust, Commander, and my respect as well as my discretion.” 

She squeezed his hand gently, and then rose. “I ought to...it’s late. I should get some sleep, or try to. We can discuss the other items tomorrow, when I’m more awake and less tipsy. Truth be told, I really just wanted someone to talk to who wasn’t looking at me like I walk on gold satin.” 

He rose as she did, out of respect, and smiled. “Of course you don’t.”

“Thank you.”

“It would be pale blue, to match your eyes. Vivienne would see to it and freeze anyone who argued otherwise.” 

The ringing of her delighted laughter lingered in his office long after she’d departed. The warmth it left in the center of his chest stayed even longer. 

  
  



	19. Do Better

Solas was not at all fooled by her excuse for leaving him behind as she left for Crestwood. After all, he knew they were going to meet Hawke’s friend in the Wardens, and knew full well that she knew of his distaste for the Grey Warden Order. It was evident in his slightly elevated left eyebrow and amused lift at the corner of his mouth. “As you wish, Inquisitor.” At least he wasn’t angry about it.

She’d give him until the end of the week before he started penning passive aggressive notes onto his reports. It usually took about that long until Sera started playing pranks or Vivienne annoyed him while he trained recruits and healers. When it left him only Grand Enchanter Fiona for sane company, she felt sure he’d scout out a place he could disappear and dream, just as he’d done at Haven. Not even she knew quite where he’d set up his quarters, after all. 

Thinking about Solas’s irritation distracted her from her own. When she’d announced her plan to take both Varric and Cassandra with her to Crestwood, the war room had gone decidedly quiet. It had taken Cullen’s standard bluntness to cut through the disquiet. “Do you,” he had asked slowly, “have a death wish, Inquisitor?”

Evelyn was already sick of the word ‘Inquisitor’. Largely because Dorian kept using it to try and provoke a response from her. He was bored, naturally, since neither Varric nor Cassandra had spoken to each other in three entire days and kept their answers to everyone else clipped and monotone. The Seeker had never been the gregarious sort, but generally on these voyages she liked to talk, to question, and mull over things. For Varric to descend into this sullen silence was nigh unheard of.

Dorian fell back into a canter beside her as they rode. “How many more days?” he asked under his breath. “You said they needed to work it out; how long will that take?”

“Void take me if I know,” Evelyn muttered. She watched Varric as he expertly commanded the small supply wagon. He rode when he had to, but it wasn’t comfortable for him as it was for the longer-legged humans. As the journey to Crestwood was largely kings’ roads, she’d asked him to help with the cart rotation instead, which helped their small retinue rest more efficiently and helped winnow down the number of people she brought with them out of Skyhold. They needed more hands there with the repairs and building barracks in the valley. 

Cassandra rode ahead of the wagon, stiff-backed and on edge. 

“Drastic measures may be necessary,” Dorian commented. 

Evelyn shot him a worried look. “I’m not sure what that means, coming from you.” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t do blood magic, even if you ask nicely.”

“I’m more worried about the blood they’ll draw.” 

“Trust me.” He winked at her and Evelyn felt the furthest from trust she could get. 

As it happened, her instincts were correct. Dorian’s idea of “drastic measures” was to enter the tent she shared with Cassandra and plop down his bedroll unceremoniously into the spot left for the Seeker. 

She could only watch in dawning horror as he began to neatly undress. “Do get in a good look, darling,” he drawled. “I normally charge for this quality of striptease.” 

“You are mad. Absolutely raving mad.” 

He glanced roguishly over his shoulder. “Aren’t you worried for your virtue?”

“Fresh out of both worry and virtue, honestly. More frightened for my life. Cassandra will sleep on the ground by the campfire before she shares with Varric, and she’ll burn down my tent so I suffer alongside her.” 

“Smells like rain to me.” 

“It does not.” 

Naturally, it began raining. Evelyn looked at Dorian with wide eyes. “Is weather magic a thing?”

He laughed until he was practically doubled up. “ _ No _ , Evelyn. Though not for lack of trying. I simply noted the storm clouds gathering before sundown and thought I’d take advantage. Of the moment, not of you. I quite like my skin without daggers in it.” 

“Smart man.” 

“Besides, I’m the jealous and possessive type, and I see how you look at Cullen. And how he looks at you. I’d rather not step into that bonfire if I can help it.”

“Don’t bait me or you get to sleep in the rain.” Utter nonsense. She knew how Cullen looked at her, and it wasn’t anything like the way she looked at him. Not that she looked at him. She needed to not look at him anymore. Shit. 

The flap of the tent opened and revealed Cassandra’s face, which instantly transformed into a scowl. “What are you doing in here, Tevinter?”

“Not my name, and I’m here for the cuddles. You can’t keep her all to yourself. Varric snores, and his chest doesn’t make quite as nice a pillow.” 

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Ignore him. Though we do have some things to discuss. Do you mind terribly sharing with Varric just tonight?” 

Cassandra met her gaze and Evelyn knew the Seeker could call her on her bluff more easily than Solas had. It was an achingly flimsy excuse. Though, perhaps by the way Cassandra’s cheeks pinked as she looked between them -  _ Maker _ , Dorian was shirtless, how had Evelyn not even noticed? - Cassandra might be drawing conclusions other than the truth anyway. 

The Seeker dropped the tent flap and backed away, her boots squelching in the mud. 

Evelyn groaned. “Shit.” 

Dorian pulled a light linen shirt over his head and tucked into his bedroll. The light from the lamp danced over his lovely skin and his handsome face practically glowed. “Is it that bad?” he wondered. “To be thought involved with me? Would it be the mage part or Tevinter nobility that’s worse, do you think?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “An affair is easily excused. Any dalliance I have is likely to end up as nothing more than fodder for the next edition of  _ The Randy Dowager Quarterly _ . A friendship, a fighting companionship, that’s more threatening. On both counts, though the world knows where I stand on mages by now, I would think. The Imperium is more than a little concerning. If the tottering southern Chantry reads an alliance into our relationship, that could be dangerous. Or at least, they would see it as such. They’re so threadbare at the moment, though, a stiff breeze is as much a threat as the Inquisition.” 

“Ah,” he said.

She looked over at him and he smiled, hiding a hint of hurt. Evelyn relented, sensing how difficult it was for him to be an outsider in a land that despised everything he was, even if it was by his own choice. “You didn’t ask if I  _ cared _ whether or not it seemed bad.”

He met her gaze curiously. “Do you?”

“No,” she answered honestly. “I think Josephine would like me to, but I don’t. There are too many actions the world views with disapproval that are nonetheless the right thing to do. I’m not going to let politics dictate my personal friends and my comrades in arms. I need people I trust at my back. I will have theirs as well, and the world be damned.” 

Dorian tilted his head. “You assume only friendship, then?”

“A man with your confidence makes a move if he wants something, Dorian. I can only assume you have no interest in me, or not in a physical sense. It’s quite all right; I’m certainly not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“I am. Everyone’s cup of tea, I mean.”

She snorted. “Wretch. Not entirely false, however.” 

“Only partially false, as your particular preferred cup of tea is milky white and blonde.” 

Evelyn winced. “Is it that obvious? I need to get it under control.”

“Or get it under you.” 

She blew out the lamp. “Good  _ night _ , Dorian,” she said firmly. 

His quiet chuckle followed her to the edge of sleep. “Sleep well,  _ Inquisitor _ .”

Hitting him with her pillow was never really a choice.

…

Whatever passed between Varric and Cassandra during the night, they at least were a little more at ease around each other. Dorian couldn’t help a shit-eating grin every time he looked at them, but at least he gave the Evelyn enough time to down her coffee before he dug in to needling the dwarf and the Seeker. 

It was absolutely selfish of her, but she made an excuse to ride ahead and left them to it. At least Dorian was preoccupied and not digging into her own business. 

She regretted the decision when she reigned in above Crestwood where the forward scouts had set up camp, Harding among them. Bless Cullen. He always made sure Harding was in the scouting missions when it concerned Evelyn and her team, and she could not be more grateful. If Evelyn could believe in any blessing from the Maker, it would be in the form of Scout Lace Harding and her cheerfully ruthless efficiency. 

Evelyn had refused to step into the territorial pissing match between Cullen and Leliana over the scout. Privately, however, she rooted for whomever would keep Harding out in Thedas, carving a path for her. 

Harding cocked an eyebrow at her and gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. In the dim overcast light of the stormy morning, it was all to evident what she was gesturing at. 

“Well,” Evelyn grunted as she dismounted, “fuck. That’s inconvenient.” 

The lake beyond Crestwood village was a shimmering, roiling mess of green light. Fade green. “We think it’s actually in a series of caverns in the hills beyond, but they’re flooded. The old village is underneath the lake, flooded by darkspawn during the Blight ten years ago. Apparently a lot of people died in that attack, and their bodies were obviously never recovered to burn. Convenient for the demons, as neither they nor the corpses need to breathe air to survive.” 

Evelyn groaned. “Why do we always meet over undead, Scout Harding? Why can’t we ever spend time over Wicked Grace or even needlework at this point?”

“I’ll buy into Varric’s next game when I’m in Skyhold, and bring my mending with me just to cheer you up.” 

“Socks,” she said. “Let’s darn socks instead of fighting undead. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

The dwarf wrinkled her pert nose. “I think I’d rather take the undead, personally.” 

“You are no fun.”

“Sock darning is fun?”

“It certainly doesn’t smell of rot. Unless we’re talking about The Iron Bull’s socks. I’m ready to make him go barefoot like Solas.” 

The scout snorted. “Maybe that’s why elves hate shoes? They just have really stinky feet?”

Evelyn laughed. “Well, Sera certainly does. Though I think she does that on purpose so they double as grenades.” The dwarf guffawed.

“So glad,” Dorian drawled behind her, dismounting from his horse, “that someone’s having a delightful morning.” He strode past her, anger in every footstep.

Evelyn looked to Varric and Cassandra, but the Seeker wandered off in the direction of the potion supply. Varric looked entertained. “She hit him when he wouldn’t shut up.” 

Well, hell. This was all going just swimmingly. She looked out at the glowing lake. Swimmingly, indeed. Sweet Maker’s mercy. 

Cullen’s words from the war room circled around her mind.  _ Do you have a death wish? _

If she didn’t before, she was getting damn well close. 

…

“Well, this is just delightful,” Hawke grumbled. 

Evelyn pointed a finger at the former Champion’s face. “Don’t you start.” 

Hawke looked at where the other three members of their party stood on opposite sides of the old pump house, each studiously not looking at the other. “What got up their asses?” Hawke whispered. “I’ve never seen Varric sullen.” 

She groaned lightly. “Dorian stuck his nose in the beehive and got stung for it.” 

“The beehive being?”

“Heh, ‘bee-ing’, that’s good.”

“No it’s not.”

“No,” Evelyn admitted, “it’s not. The beehive in this metaphor is Cassandra and Varric.” 

Hawke winced. “Ah, and I’m the catalyst, I take it?”

Evelyn knelt to pick a lock that had rusted over with damp. “Yes and no. On the surface, she’s angry he so successfully lied to her and kept you from them, even when it became clear why they needed you. That it wasn’t an Exalted March, but a genuine call for help.” She grunted as the lock resisted and removed the tension wrench and rake. Her small lockpicking satchel held a bump key, she thought. She remembered putting one in there. “But,” she continued, grunting in satisfaction as she located the bump key, “that’s not really it at all. She’s angry with herself, and only some of it is really due to how well Varric fooled her. It’s her own failure that haunts her; her inability to keep the destruction of the Conclave from happening and the Divine from dying. She’s not the type of person to leave any stone unturned, and you were that stone. But what she doesn’t see is just how disastrous it is to be hung up on maybes and what-ifs when none of us can change the past. What happened is what happened, and what matters now is how we move forward together, not blame each other.”

She fished out the rondel she kept on the back of her belt. It had a blunt pommel that would work with the bump key. “And Varric blames himself just as much. The red lyrium that corrupted the Templars...it could have come from Bartrand’s expedition, or at least the knowledge of it. He did nothing to conceal it. Or not enough, at any rate. He stood by and let you shoulder the burden of Kirkwall as it disintegrated around everyone, he protected that mage, Anders, and none of his spies managed to uncover what he was planning even though Varric knew the depth to which he was involved in the mage underground. He wanted to protect you, to shoulder the burden for once instead of you. That’s why he’s here, why he travels with me: his guilt won’t let him stand in the wings any longer. But he has to let go of it. Our actions and inactions don’t always have consequences we can see, and if he’s not careful, he’s going to wind up a martyr instead of a protector.” 

The bump key in place, she lined up the hilt of the rondel and struck just so. She’d never been particularly good at bump keys, but it was worth a shot. If it didn’t work, she’d just have Hawke kick the door down. “Dorian,” she added, “wears his wit like porcupine quills, always poking at us so that he draws first blood. He’s maybe not so used to being among friends who look out for each other instead of polite insults and daggers in the night.”

She let the silence sit for a few moments before jiggling the lock. It turned, though reluctantly, and she shouldered the door open as she stood. Looking back over her shoulder, she let her gaze linger on each of them in turn: Hawke, Varric, Cassandra, and Dorian. They were all looking at her. She’d made no effort to keep her voice down, after all. 

She was the Maker-damned Inquisitor, and she would not tolerate this infighting a moment longer. Not when they had real work ahead of them. “If we’re all ready, then?” 

They all nodded solemnly and entered the corridor. Hawke caught her eye and threw her a wry smile. “Nice work,” she mouthed. 

Evelyn sighed. Was this what parenthood was like? Her parents must be eternally grateful they’d only had to put up with one child. 

A grunt from Dorian drew her attention to where he stood, a small flame balanced above his hand. It threw reddish gold light across his face, and in its flickering, she could see the sharpness of his gaze where it rested on a contraption of levers and wheels. “Well, well,” he said. “Didn’t our mayor friend say the darkspawn had destroyed the dam controls?”

Varric gave a low whistle. “He sure did. My family may never have been smith caste, but even I can see that there’s nothing wrong here except damp and rust.” 

Cassandra frowned. “Why would he flood his own village?”

“Blight,” Evelyn and Hawke said at the same time. “My uncle would have done the same,” Evelyn added. 

Hawke raised an eyebrow. “Your uncle sounds like a tit.”

She snorted. “That’s on a good day.” Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she braced herself. “All right, let’s get those drains open, team.” 

…

Varric grunted as he slipped on the bottom rung of the ladder. Cassandra’s arm shot out on instinct and caught him. They both paused for a moment and looked at each other before Varric nodded his thanks and Cassandra stood and cleared her throat. Evelyn shot Dorian a warning look, but he had a half smile that was anything but mischievous for once. It looked a little wistful, oddly enough. 

Hawke was thankfully occupied looking around. “This is almost like...a thaig?”

“Outpost,” Varric corrected. “For trading, probably. It’s not that old, or at least it’s been kept up. The town probably used it for storage or a jail or something. Too close to the surface for it to be a true thaig, and there’s probably an entrance to the Deep Roads a little farther down. It would make sense for a Grey Warden to hide close to where darkspawn might be idling below.” 

“I wish I still had those maps,” Hawke lamented. “It showed northern Ferelden on there.” 

“They haven’t complained of any issues with darkspawn, so whatever entrance there is must still be sealed.” Evelyn unhooked the small lantern from her pack and Dorian obligingly lit the candle within it. The others followed suit save for Cassandra, who preferred to keep her sword and shield at the ready, which required both hands. If anyone else noticed that Varric slipped ahead of Cassandra to light her way, they thankfully kept their mouths shut about it. 

“Let’s get this over with and go find Stroud, then.” 

It was dark, cold, miserable work, but at last they managed to find and seal the rift in the caverns. The cave full of dead refugees was a sight Evelyn had to push back to the corner of her mind, lest rage consume her. She could not afford to think on it now, to let it prey upon those old fears. 

It was easy to put it out of her mind once they found Warden Stroud. A deep sense of disquiet settled over her as she listened to the Warden’s concerns. Even Hawke seemed troubled, and she knew Stroud. “Tell me about this Warden-Commander.” 

“Warden-Commander Clarel is a good woman, a good mage, and a good person. She’s dedicated and devoted; no one could be more so to the Order than she.” Stroud sighed. “She recruited me, trained me. I’ve never held as much respect for someone as I do her. But this...I don’t know. There has always been a faction within the Order than believed in more...proactive action against the Blight. Finding the tombs of the Old Gods and slaying them before the darkspawn could reach them, ending the threat of Blights once and for all.”

Evelyn blinked. On its surface it made a sort of sense, but… “Yes,” she drawled acidly, “what bad could possibly happen by breaking into a tomb of a supernatural creature we barely understand? No one in recorded human history has seen an Old God before corruption. They couldn’t possibly have been locked away from the world for a reason.” 

Stroud raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t say I agreed with them, Inquisitor. But surely you could understand the reasoning. If you had lived through a Blight or fought darkspawn as we have-”

She snapped her eyes up to his and held them firmly. “I  _ have _ , Warden. I have fought one of the very first darkspawn, as it happens. A Magister Sidereal that the Wardens imprisoned instead of slaying, one of the seven that by all accounts  _ began _ the bloody Blights. A creature so dangerous he was hidden away in an ancient dwarven thaig, chained by blood magic wards reinforced by mages the Order coerced into helping. And he still broke free of them, didn’t he? And how was that again? By manipulating the minds of Wardens. By force-feeding dwarves Blighted flesh until he could control them. So you want to preach to me about fighting ancient evil? Tell me how Corypheus survived. Tell me he doesn’t now have the Order of Grey Wardens to replace the mages I freed from Redcliffe. Tell me the Wardens aren’t  _ that fucking stupid _ .” 

Hawke shifted uncomfortably. “Technically, I set him free-”

“No,” Evelyn cut her off, “you tried to do what the Wardens were incapable of doing. They knew, didn’t they, Stroud? They knew he could transfer himself like an Archdemon. You didn’t just arrive at that conclusion on your own. They knew,  _ and they kept him anyway. _ Because what’s another secret?” She ran a hand through her loose hair and tried to reign in her temper, but it was all just...Maker’s breath. 

She sighed and looked at Stroud again. “The Grey Warden Order might have been formed to combat the Blights, but you are not the only ones to face that danger. By keeping these secrets to yourselves, you have robbed the rest of Thedas the chance to find another way. Maybe a better way. But that way might not require the existence of the Wardens, would it? We have let you sit on your martyrdom like a throne, let you recruit and take what you need to throw lives away on magic we barely understand. Maker’s tears, Warden Stroud. Your secrets may have doomed the world, and our inaction has done nothing but pave the way.” 

A heavy silence sat in the cave at her words. After a few moments of it, Stroud shifted and folded his arms. “What do you suggest, Inquisitor?” he asked, and to his credit, there was no rancor in his words.

“Do better,” she said simply, wearily. “That is all any of us can do.” She sighed. “I’ll meet you in the Western Approach in two weeks’ time.” 

…

It was a good dream. 

A very good dream. Warmth and hands. A hot mouth on his, moans in his ear. Slick warmth encasing his hardness. Blue eyes and hair like polished mahogany. That laugh, but lower. Sultry. The taste of salt and skin and wine and the sound of his name on her tongue.

Cullen shuddered awake, cock hard as granite and demanding his attention. It was mere moments before he reached completion, groaning into the messy tangle of bedsheets. His entire company of officers could have been standing in the room and he wouldn’t have noticed, or cared, so arousing had that dream been. 

Sense came to him slowly, and he ran his left hand through his hair as he flopped onto his back. His right hand was still clenched around the base of his cock, balls absorbing the warmth of his hand as a rather embarrassing amount of seed dried on his lower belly. 

_ Sweet Andraste _ , his imagination had never been so clear, so vivid. He was no stranger to them, though his generally took a darker turn. When a man went through large periods of relative celibacy, such dreams were fairly common, should he neglect to take matters into his own hands. Fortunately, this time, there had been no demons, no pain inflicted upon him for another’s pleasure, no guilt in knowing the woman he made love to was not real, was dead, but he couldn’t stop himself…

_ I did stop. _ No matter how many times he told himself that, the fear of how it might have gone was more than enough to torment him. It had been for ten years.  _ I knew it wasn’t her. I remembered her death and refused to dishonor her memory.  _

Not in his dreams.  _ I am not a mage,  _ he thought as he scowled at the hole in the roof _ , I cannot control my dreams willingly. _ Even most mages normally didn’t, or couldn’t without the aid of lyrium. 

He groaned and sat up, pulling off his linen shirt and using it to clean himself. He needed a bath anyway, and at least this way he could duck in and out of the bath house more relaxed than usual. Still, what an unusual dream. He shook himself, but couldn’t forget the feeling of her skin, the brush of breath on his neck. It felt like she had truly been there, that they had been together and it wasn’t just a borderline adolescent fantasy. 

Cullen frowned at himself. He had been having more fantasies of late, and even though he knew there was more to his attraction to Evelyn Trevelyan than simple lust...well, the lust hadn’t exactly been subtle. It felt as though what should have been a normal sexual drive in a man his age had been repressed for years under the lyrium, vanished entirely under the first withdrawal sickness, and now had come roaring back with a strength he hadn’t felt since he was fourteen. Fortunately, he had far better control of himself now than he had then, or else that would be mortifying. 

Still. The fact remained that he could not, would not, sit there and fantasize about the woman they’d just named Inquisitor, who already had the weight of the world on her shoulders. Who had already sacrificed so much for them, for others. She deserved his full attention on his work, not his cock. He owed her that at the very least. 

_ Stop it _ , he told whatever animal part of his brain controlled his rod.  _ Stop it right now _ . 

…

  
  


Evelyn shuddered awake, gasping in breath and clenching her thighs tightly together beneath her bedroll. It drew out the waves of pleasure and she lay there practically panting and hoping against hope it was late enough in the morning that Cassandra would already be up. She turned her head slowly, and was immensely relieved to see that the Seeker was up and about and no longer in the tent. 

She stretched languidly, pressing one hand to the heat between her legs and jolting out another, smaller wave of pleasure. Holy Andraste, that dream was…

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a dream so intensely pleasurable that she came without even touching herself. Once or twice it had happened, but it was hazy, blurry, a simple side effect of adrenaline and pent up desire with no outlet. This was...not that.

Had she awoken to find a slumbering Cullen beside her, part of her wouldn’t have been surprised. The dream had been that vivid. She could recall the feeling of his skin. How the scar on his lip felt against hers as he kissed her, the scrape of his persistent stubble against her neck and breasts. She ached as though he really had been inside of her. 

A sudden, slightly horrifying thought occurred to her and she tore apart her rucksack to find a bit of ink and scrap of paper. 

_ S- _

_ Can pers with power dream with pers who doesn’t? V important. Hope no. Say no. Lie? _

_ -E _

She rolled the paper up and slipped it into a case for a raven. Yes, they’d be back at Skyhold within the week, but Maker’s breath, she couldn’t forget to ask him. Not that she relished the more detailed version of the conversation, particularly if he had to figure out how to help her control it. 

_ Yes, Solas, terribly sorry to bother you, but could you please help me refrain from mentally ravishing my Commander while we both sleep? _

Evelyn flopped back into her bedroll and stared up at the tent canopy. 

“Fuck.” 

  
  



	20. The Families We Have and Those We make

She was absolutely, unabashedly, avoiding both Cullen and Solas by drawing out her bath far longer than necessary. Everyone in Skyhold tripped over themselves to help ease the burden of a tired Inquisitor, from Josephine requesting enchanted heat rocks for her tub to the cook having a hearty meal delivered within minutes of her return. Also on a magically heated tray. Who knew what small luxuries they’d all been missing out on by locking mages up like criminals in the Circle? Bless Dagna for taking the Tranquil they’d managed to seek out and rescue under her wing. 

And that Formari alchemist from Redcliffe was a blessing as well. His restoratives were pure genius, and Evelyn felt the stress fairly melt out of her muscles as she sagged in the bathwater. Royal elfroot, a fragrant plant from northern Tevinter called ‘eucalyptus’, and a few other minerals she didn’t have names for, all blended with some sort of sap from a special myrtle plant that only grew in northern Orlesian swamps. It tingled a little on the skin. Never had she felt quite so pampered. She’d normally feel quite guilty for it, but under the circumstances all she felt was gratitude. 

That was a far better subject to occupy her attention. She could simply sit here in the hot water and think of ways to improve the Tranquil’s lot and make use of their skills simultaneously. An alchemist-produced line of bath oils would sweep Val Royeaux, she felt sure. Perhaps she could talk to Varric about it as an investment. She need not think on -

“You are going to prune if you stay in there any longer, lethallan.” 

Evelyn gasped, and sank down into the water. Needlessly so, as Solas kept to the other side of the half-open oak door. Her private bath was in a small stone chamber beneath a storage loft, as it stayed nice and warm easily enough. It also had the added benefit of sharing an internal wall with the cisterns below, which in some complicated miracle of engineering, resulted in their dwarven allies installing indoor plumbing. Limited to cold water, of course, but with mages around, that mattered little. 

Not even Annreth had plumbing in the main house yet, though the Teyrn’s palace in Ostwick did. The ability to take a nice, long, heated bath without the inconvenience of servants having to lug the water up several flights of stairs was wonderful. Nearly worth the price of being Inquisitor. 

The sound of a silver tray being shuffled reached her ears. “You touch that pork pie and I might have to execute you.” 

“I suggest you hurry with your bath, then.” 

He laughed lightly as she hurled a few creative curses at his head. Grumbling under her breath, she stood and rubbed the dampness from her skin with the bath linens. By the time she’d dressed herself in soft trousers and a loose tunic, she emerged to find Solas comfortably sprawled on her settee with a half-eaten apple purloined from her dinner. Mischief fairly radiated from him, and that filled her with not a small amount of foreboding. A bored, restless Solas was a rare and dangerous creature. 

Such energy was normally converted to thwarting whatever mayhem Sera was up to, but at the moment it was quite evident that the cause of his ire was not the elven archer but Evelyn herself. Evelyn plopped down onto the rug gracelessly and began to dig into the pork pie on the tea table. “Don’t give me that look,” she told him around a mouthful. “You would have hated Crestwood and throttled that Warden.”

“Doubtless,” he agreed readily. “I am far more interested in the note you sent me.” 

Evelyn groaned. He handed her a goblet of wine. It was light and crisp and sweet, not their usual heady red affair. She sniffed at it appreciatively and washed down the pie. “I don’t...well. I was just surprised and panicking, and it must just have been a dream. I just didn’t expect it, that’s all.”

He raised an eyebrow at her and took an agonizingly slow bite of his apple, wicked amusement in his expression at her discomfort. “Oh, I see,” he said finally. “That’s all, is it?”

“Yes.” She did not squeak. She was a grown woman and the Inquisitor, and her voice did not squeak.

Solas’s mouth twitched. “Could you describe this dream, then, Evelyn? That may help.”

Well if the wine wasn’t red, her face surely was, and she could no longer blame the heat of her bathwater. “No,” she replied firmly. “Maker. No. Absolutely not.” 

“I see,” he drawled. “Allow me to hazard a guess that your dream featured an unexpected blonde, tall, and well-muscled guest?” 

Evelyn sagged. “Oh, blighted hell and damnation. Am I really that obvious?”

He leveled a look at her. “To everyone except perhaps the object of your obsession, yes.” 

She glared at him, but it had no effect whatsoever. “It’s not an obsession. I’m not twelve.” 

“Then stop acting like it.” Solas placed the apple core on the tray. “Talk to the man, would you? Before you drive the rest of us completely batty.” He looked at her sternly. “And before you invade his dreams again.”

She sat upright and paled. “Oh, no. No, I didn’t. Did I? How?” Sweet Maker, it was the worst invasion of privacy she could have imagined, as bad as the Chantry painted blood magic. Her blood felt frozen in her veins. How did she stop it? How could she apologize? Surely there were sleeping drafts that could keep her dreamless or something.

Evelyn didn’t realize she’d covered her face with her hands until Solas gently pried them open. “Da’len,” he said softly, “look at me.” 

Was she crying? Oh damn. What was this magic doing to her?

His face had softened from its stern expression. “You do not have enough strength to invade the minds of the unwilling in their dreams, not yet. If you were both there, it was because you both wished it to be. When I felt you near me in the Fade, I let you in and controlled our interaction, not you. Whatever has happened between you and the Commander was no different in permission than had it happened in flesh. Do you understand?”

She shook her head slightly. “I...I don’t know.” 

He gave a tug on her wrists and she followed his lead, standing up and taking a seat next to him on the settee. He placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Leaving aside mages and dwarves for the moment,” Solas told her, “most people have unconscious guards around their minds. They’re not particularly strong, but it takes strong magic to get past them, as it is natural to resist any invasion into the mind, even in the Fade. That is why a person cannot be controlled by magic outside of the strongest blood magic, why demons must barter with mages instead of simply take them, and why the Circle uses lyrium in its ridiculous Harrowing ritual - without the specially prepared draft of it, a mage would be hard pressed to let down their guard long enough to allow the demon entry. It is not, as the Chantry believes, quite so easy to succumb to possession. You must want it, on some level, to allow it to happen. So many mages are driven to that point by circumstances and the fear that has been bred into the world against them.” 

Solas sighed. “That said, my friend, this magic is only growing stronger within you. It grows beyond the ability of the anchor, beyond its original purpose, it seems. You are somehow pulling it deeper within you. I told you it was dangerous, though not life-ending. Not...yet. Hopefully it will not reach that point, but we will deal with it if it progresses. This is one of those dangers. I honestly should have seen it coming after you managed to find me in the Fade, but I had thought that merely a result of one elven magic seeking out another by nature. It did not occur to me you might be able to enter someone else’s mind.”

He rubbed her shoulder absently as they both stared into the flames of the hearth. “For the moment, you are not strong enough to enter the dreams of the unwilling. That may change, so we will have to see about training you to master it. When I cannot help you, Dorian should be able to provide some limited guidance. He does not have the ability, but he has an acquaintance who does. Someone I understand your friend the Champion aided in the past; an elfish lad named Feynriel. It has led Dorian into some interesting research Tevinter mages have done into the power. Some of it is even correct, though I should note I am judging by my own experience with the ability.” 

She was attempting to process everything he told her, she truly was. But one thought kept sticking out in her mind. “Solas?” she asked, her voice alarmingly small. “Did I hurt him?”

He turned to her and watched her face with a sympathetic expression. “I do not believe so, lethallan. Yet there is some trouble in his past that he does not speak of, that still haunts his every step. It was caused by magic, that much is obvious. He is very careful when he steps around the mages. It is evident he must make a conscious effort to not flinch at times, to not leap to the tension and conclusions other Templars do. While he may be overcoming it, there is still a very deep fear of magic within him. You did no physical harm to him, and as I said, he must have let you into his dream willingly, even pulled you into it somehow with the strength of his own desire. But should you tell him the truth, and I cannot tell you whether you should or should not, it may hurt him emotionally. Though I suppose that hurt may be worse if it does not come from you directly.” He shrugged slightly. “In this I am afraid I cannot be of much assistance. It is a matter purely between the two of you.” 

She stood and ran a hand through her heavy, wet hair. “Well...shit.” 

Solas snorted slightly and stood as well. “Speak from the heart, da’len. It has yet to steer you wrongly.” He gave her a smile that was as close to roguish as he could get and added, “If things go well between you, it may be a safe avenue for you to...practice.” She turned slowly and fixed him with a look that would have frozen lesser men, but Solas only grew more entertained. “After all, between those with such gifts and inclinations, it can be quite an intense experience, often more so than -”

“No!” she cried, turning away from him and tossing her hands in the air in irritation. “I already have to listen to Dorian’s opinions on my nonexistent love life, I will not tolerate your teasing as well! Out with you!”

“Certainly, Inquisitor. As you wish.” 

How he managed to sound both contrite and mischievous at once was astounding, and it wasn’t until she turned back around that she saw he’d taken the second pork pie. “You absolute shit!” she shouted.

Solas’s laughter floated back up from the bottom of her staircase. She wanted to be angry with him, she did, but...well, it was so nice to see a break in his normally grim and fatalistic exterior. Whatever burden sat on his shoulders sat heavy indeed, and while he had never told her what horrors lie in his past, she could see them well enough in his careful expressions. When that mask was lifted and mirth or excitement or his passionate love of magic shone through, it seemed as though one could meet the real Solas for a moment, not the cautious façade the rest of the world saw. Such glimpses were fleeting, but made him dear to her nonetheless. 

Feeling as though you did not deserve happiness was not a foreign emotion to her, after all. 

That thought brought her up short in her pacing. She sighed at herself and retrieved a simple tooled leather bodice to fasten over the tunic, and a pair of matching bracers to tie her shirtsleeves into so they didn’t get in her way during archery practice with Sera. Did she want happiness? Ostensibly, everyone did, right? 

It was just...she’d never really thought about it for herself. Not since she was a small child dreaming of handsome princes and pretty dresses and adventure. She’d just...survived. Made it through one year and then the next. Learning how to fight helped keep her sane and level, and gave her some purpose. There was a certain contentment to her years with the Hunters, but she wouldn’t necessarily call it happiness. Always the dread of something terrible, the feeling that if she loved something too much, she’d lose it. Withdrawing from her family, shrinking into herself and focusing only on the jobs Aidan threw her way; that wasn’t a way to live. It was just survival. 

Strange to think it had taken a world-ending danger to make her see that. Of all things, the fear she’d always felt was now justified. Corypheus would not rest. The world was still in danger. She was still in danger, from this magic that had invaded her body, from the circumstances that had thrust her to the forefront of this movement. She was the embodiment of hope for countless people, and that weight should have driven her screaming into the night, but...it didn’t. 

Not that it felt quite right, either. But as she stood on the stone balcony outside her quarters and surveyed the bustling courtyard, she could see groups of people conversing and working together that would have been at war only a few months prior: mages, free and training with Templars, elves and humans mingling as though they always had, alongside dwarves. Fereldans trading drinks and jokes with Orlesians. A Tevinter altus and a Qunari warrior spy playing chess in the sunshine. 

_ I did this. _

With the support and counsel of the wisest, fiercest, strongest people she had ever met, she had taken an idea and pushed it forward into something new. Something better, at least so far. 

Evelyn could remember so clearly the way the Commander had looked up at her, held her gaze with pride and purpose and belief, the day they announced her as Inquisitor. It had felt like a rope tossed to the drowning, a guiding hand in the dark. He believed in her, so surely, surely she could believe in herself at least a little. 

With belief came hope. And with hope came the thought that someday, maybe, there might be happiness. Past the pain, past the darkness, the fighting, the death and mayhem...there was not only a future to avoid, but a future to build. 

For Thedas, and for herself.

…

  
  


She was debating the throne with Josephine when the messenger found her. “Your Worship,” the scout said, apologizing for the interruption, “there’s a mercenary band that’s arrived to pledge allegiance to the Inquisition.”

Still mildly irritated over the presumption of the throne, Evelyn looked over her shoulder and blinked at the scout. “The Commander can handle that just fine, or find The Iron Bull or Krem if you can’t find him.” 

The scout blushed slightly. “Yes, of course, Your Worship, it’s just that the Commander sent me for you. He said you’d want to see to this personally. The group is from the Free Marches.” 

A soft rush of air wheezed past her suddenly tight chest. It couldn’t be. Could it? 

She should have apologized to the scout for snapping at her, but she was barely aware of her own body moving forward, ignoring Josephine and breaking into a run past startled visitors and dignitaries. She very nearly jumped from the top of the towering staircase as she spied an impossible sight in the courtyard below. 

Her eyes found the Commander first, as though instinct could find him even before she thought to. Beside him stood an equally tall and broad-shouldered man, with long dark hair swept back from his face in a simple plait, blue eyes the same as hers roving intelligently over the scene before him, taking in every detail even as he stood relaxed. Next to him a lithe elven woman with her river-of-fire hair unbound and beautifully chaotic around her shoulders, a large grey wolf at her heels. 

They stood next to a wagon, on which a young man the spitting image of his father stood laughing in the sunshine, his sister calmly ordering the unpacking around him. 

All of this would have been enough to make her heart crack open with unexpected joy, but her eyes had locked on the third figure in the wagon: a young man only half a year her junior, but her twin in temper and interest and her inseparable companion until they were separated by the cold steel of a Templar’s gauntlet and colder face of his father. She hadn’t seen him in nine years, had missed the time in which he’d turned from round-faced boy into handsome man. 

Ostwick Circle had fallen, so many had been killed in the Rite of Annulment. So many more fled, and she’d helped them, helped each band they found, hoping...but then she’d given up. She’d mourned him. Mourned the boy she knew and the man she never would. The cousin who was a brother, a twin. The boy raised with her when his mother died and his father shut himself away in grief, leaving the others to his eldest to mind. 

“Owen!” It was a cry, it was a shout, it was joy and disbelief. The man’s sandy head snapped around and wide eyes met hers. Trevelyan blue. 

She didn’t know how she’d managed to get down the steps and across the yard to him, only that suddenly he was in her arms. “Owen!” she sobbed into his shoulder, and he held her as tightly, as tearfully. Some amount of time passed. It might have been a lot, it might have only been moments. It mattered not. All that mattered was the piece of her heart that had been returned. 

Dimly, she became aware of the world in stages: the chill of the air, the chatter of voices, Cullen’s warm tenor calling out instructions and steering the curious clear of the area. She pulled back, patting her coat for a handkerchief. One appeared over her shoulder, held in the Commander’s leather glove. Evelyn took it with a quick but grateful look. Owen grinned at her as he dried his own tears, then pulled her close to his side with one arm, not letting her go but giving the others a chance at their own greeting. 

Jesper and Vess both made their hugs quick, allowing Aidan and Mirana more time with her. Aidan kissed her forehead. “I am relieved to see you well, Trouble.” 

She gave her favorite uncle a watery smile. “I can’t believe you came all this way.” 

Mirana clucked her tongue. “Why would we not? We are your clan, da’len. You are ours and we are yours. I would not hear of leaving you to face this madness alone.” 

“Your father wanted to come with us,” Aidan told her, “but you know we couldn’t let him.” 

Evelyn nodded. “Thank you for that. I wish as much as he that things were different, but...well. You are here. That is more than enough. Even if you did bring that lazy, good-for-nothing lump of fur.” 

Mirana clucked at her again and made a show of covering the wolf’s ears. “Hush, now. You know he’s getting on in years.” 

“I meant Jesper.” 

“Oi! What have I ever done?”

“Nothing,” Vess drawled. “That’s rather the point.”

A gentle hand touched her shoulder. “Inquisitor?”

Evelyn turned to face Cullen, who stood patiently behind her, alongside Josephine. Lady Montilyet smiled widely with genuine joy. It was truly incredible at times how she could remain so immersed in the machinations of politics and yet kept such a good heart within her. “Lord Trevelyan, Lady Mirana, Lady Vess, Lord Jesper, Lord Owen,” Josephine spoke in utterly professional tones, despite Jesper’s snort at being called a lord, “welcome to Skyhold. I am Lady Josephine Montilyet, the Inquisition’s ambassador. I have taken the liberty of arranging guest quarters in the newly restored western wing for your family, and rooms close to the training yard for your company. With your permission, Inquisitor, I can arrange for an informal dinner in your quarters before we have a more formal welcome banquet this evening.” 

“You are a treasure, Josephine,” Evelyn told her. “Thank you. All of that sounds perfect.” 

Lady Montilyet retreated to see to the arrangements, and after a quick handshake with her uncle, Cullen departed to see the Hunters settled. Jesper turned to her and raised his eyebrows. “So. ‘Inquisitor’?”

“Come inside,” Evelyn told them all. “Let’s get you out of the cold and into a bottle of wine.” 

…

Owen lingered after the others had left to get settled. Evelyn watched his profile as he leaned against the fireplace mantle and watched the flames. It was odd to feel as though she still knew him as well as she knew herself, and yet she didn’t know him at all. The years gone were years they became who they were. She was far different from the Evelyn he’d known in his childhood. It was unfair to expect him to remain unchanged.

“Is it true?” he asked softly. “They say you allow mages their freedom here.” 

“Yes,” she answered. “I suppose once a new Divine is elected there may be resistance, but I certainly have no intention of reinstating the Circle. Though mages still need a place where they can be safely educated in their powers, of course - and it should be a place they feel safe and welcome, not caged. Grand Enchanter Fiona has ideas for a college of arcane arts. It’s still only a rough sketch of a plan, as none of us know what the future holds, but it is a good one.” 

“You trust mages to govern themselves?” Still he did not look at her. 

She tucked her legs under herself as she settled into the sofa. “I trust people to govern themselves under negotiated structures and laws. It should be no different for a mage than a chevalier. Codes of conduct, sensible laws.” She sighed. “I know it sounds idealistic and impossible, but we find ourselves in impossible times.” 

“Yet there are Templars here as well.” 

She gave up trying to get comfortable and sat forward. “Yes, there are. They are here to serve the Inquisition, just as the mages in the north tower are. I won’t pretend it wasn’t difficult, but we have an alliance, and key to that alliance is cooperation. We’ve worked very hard to get our forces to a point they can fight together. With that has come...well, I won’t call it camaraderie, but tolerance.” 

Owen ran a hand through his locks. Always the color of sand, of pale gold. She’d been terribly jealous of his hair as a young girl. “I don’t hate the Templars, not all of them. I don’t even hate the ones who tried to kill me. I understood, as mad as that sounds. I didn’t agree, and I hoped against hope they would break free of their obsessive need to follow orders, of the lies they’d been fed about us. I hoped they would see us as people.”

At last he looked at her, eyes full of a kind of sorrow she could never understand. “They didn’t. The Knight-Commander of our Circle was a good man, but he was older in years and he’d lost control of the more radical of his recruits, especially those who gained their knighthood just as Kirkwall descended into chaos. The First Enchanter still thought she could reason with them on his behalf, but all it did was give them the excuse to accuse her of blood magic and mind control. They killed her, and then they came for me, and for the children. I was the strongest, most dangerous mage remaining that hadn’t fled.” 

Evelyn tilted her head to the side. “You told me in your letters you were a healer. How is that dangerous?”

“I was what you would call a spirit healer, Evie, a mage who can summon spirits from across the Veil to assist in healing magic. They’re benign, helpful spirits: compassion, fortitude, love, kindness. Yet fears abound that I would not be able to tell the difference between a kind spirit and a demon, as though we are not taught from the very first puff of magic what dangers demons embody to us.” 

She stood and joined him at the fire. “They feared you would be the first to become an abomination, and then the un-Harrowed children would follow.” 

Owen nodded. “I got them out, the children. Got myself out, without harming anyone. That has always been of utmost importance to me. I need you to understand that.”

“Of course.” She placed a hand on his arm, frowning up at the hesitation written in his features. “Of course, Owen.”

He took in a shaky breath. “I need to tell you something, but it’s difficult for me to...trust. Only Vess knows and she found out largely by accident.” 

Evelyn said nothing, merely waited until he finally rubbed a hand over his face and gave in to whatever internal struggle churned within him. “I was injured, in the escape. Badly. I...no, let me start again. I must explain first how I became a spirit healer, I think.”

“All right,” she agreed. “Come tell me.” She led him back over to the settee and retrieved a spare blanket from her bed, offering it to him. He took it with a slow smile, remembering as she did how they used to curl up beneath the same blanket and read together as young children. As they grew, they read together less but always talked, always sharing a blanket. He told her of his crush on his tutor, she told him her dreams of adventure. 

It was a silent sign to him now that he could still trust her with his secrets, and he settled in on the opposite end and faced her. She spread the blanket over them and waited. After a few moments of more comfortable silence, he cleared his throat softly and began his story. 

He’d had a friend, a boy who loved to draw and paint more than he loved magic, to no small frustration of his tutors. Still, they both passed their Harrowing, regardless, and his friend applied his passion to laboriously copying out magical tomes and even hand-illustrated copies of the Chant of Light that sold wonderfully in Val Royeaux and brought in no small amount of money for the Circle. It was rare for a mage not made Tranquil to be so single-minded in a craft, but he simply loved beauty. 

As Owen had loved him. 

A day came when this artist was careless in his retrieval of a book from high in the library, and as simple an accident as slipping on a ladder resulted in disaster. For the artist still loved art more than magic, and couldn’t remember the simplest healing cantrip. In his panic, he fused the bones in his broken hand together so poorly that not even the best healer in the Circle could undo the damage. 

After countless nights holding his lover, letting him cry himself to sleep at the lost of what he held most dear, Owen could barely contain the rising need within him to help, to fix. He spent hours researching healing spells, wrote letters to the best healers in Thedas, but as the Circles tightened their security during the Blight and the unrest after, it became more and more difficult to get answers. Even the best of them could not help. 

It was this intense and building need to do something, to help somehow, that first attracted the spirit of love to Owen. He knew it was dangerous, of course - love is easily twisted to desire, each masquerading as the other. But Owen knew his own heart, knew that while they had enjoyed each other’s bodies at times, it was far more important to him that his friend heal and be able to hold a pencil and draw again. To be able to trace his beautiful shapes in ink, to breathe life into oil on canvas. For it was the artist’s happiness that he loved more than anything, and the need to restore it was powerful. 

With the spirit’s help, he was able to. The artist was grateful, even though he didn’t - couldn’t - understand why Owen and risked himself. To one so careless with his own magic, the artist could not grasp the nuances of the differences between spirits and demons as well as others. 

“But it was enough, for me,” he told her. “I was sorry to end our relationship, of course, but the ability to help was...it was everything. I realized that Love was not only a romantic obsession, for that love is often selfish and that desire dangerous. But instead, it was a wider emotion, a better one if I kept it outward. In time I began to wonder if Faith and Love and Compassion are not as simple as we like to think. I wondered if my spirit friend was all of them; maybe even something else, something for which we have no name. Why are you smiling like that?”

She was smiling, of course she was. “I must introduce you to my friend Solas. You will have much to talk about. But please, continue. You said you were hurt in your escape?”

Owen nodded, and pulled the blanket up a little higher. “Yes, I was. Ironically enough, I was hurt by a Templar while trying to help the Knight-Captain, who had been struck down by her own subordinates. She had sided with Ser Hugh, the Knight-Commander, as he refused to allow the Rite of Annulment the others were clamoring for, claiming it was only within the individual Knight-Commander’s purview, and not the business of the Lord Seeker. The others viewed him as either senile or under the First Enchanter’s control, with Ser Eliza little better than a demon familiar.” 

Evelyn winced. “I thought Ostwick was reportedly a mild Circle.”

He shrugged. “We were, for a long time. I won’t lie to you and say it was pleasant to know you must by law be held captive for the rest of your days, but at least it was a decent prison and the jailors largely kind. Everything changed two years ago. One of my healer apprentices suspected that the lyrium the Templars were receiving was tainted somehow. Chantry resources were spread thin with the unrest, and he knew the latest batch was delivered by smugglers out of Kirkwall, not the usual shipment from the Mining Guild. They became more paranoid, more violent, those that took it. We think. It was only a theory.” 

She swore softly. “A theory we can unfortunately bear out on evidence. You’re not wrong about the lyrium, but I’ll explain later.” 

“Ser Eliza and Ser Hugh were both slaughtered, along with the First Enchanter. I couldn’t save them, so I focused on getting the children out. I still wonder...well, nevermind that. I can’t change the past, so I’m told repeatedly.” He sighed. “We escaped but my wounds were dire, and I was exhausted. The children were not skilled or knowledgeable enough to help. I was dying. I may have died, briefly. I’m not entirely certain. What I do know is that when I woke up, I was no longer alone.” 

“Someone found you and healed you?”

“Yes, in a way. My friend, the spirit of love. Somehow she heard me dying, crossed the Veil where it was threadbare in the fighting, pulled along in the wake of some panicked idiot summoning a demon to protect themselves. She found me and she healed me, but the only way to do that, to lend me her power, was to merge with me. With my last conscious thought, I had offered her refuge, thinking that if I died, at least I may buy her some time to figure out how to cross back into the Fade before our world perverted her.” 

The implication of what Owen was telling her settled in her mind slowly. “Yet she did not. She healed you instead. Is she still within you?”

He looked away from her. “Yes. She is. As I am. We are connected, our consciousness blended in a way that I lack words to describe. She is me and I am her. It is not like sharing a body or being controlled or possessed. It is...I am me but...more than myself. I never realized how lonely it is in one’s mind before. How much empty space there is to fill with another.” 

“So,” Evelyn said slowly, “you became ten times more dangerous than the Templars thought you to be.” 

“If it was another spirit, perhaps. But I...we...she...we are Love, Evie. I told you it was important to me to harm no one. Important to me that you understand that, really understand it. I cannot hurt, for it hurts me twice as much to do so. Needless, pointless pain is anathema to love. There is pain at times with healing, but always with the goal of soothing, of saving. I am a healer. That is the core of who I am, and I cannot change it, even if I wished to.” He shook his head lightly. “That is why I could not join the rebel mages. The children...I was lucky, so terribly lucky that the clan Vess happened to be traveling with came across us. We were starving; a life in the Circle does not prepare you to feed yourself on the run, and I only remembered the basic lessons from Uncle William. I failed to so much as snag a nug, I could only forage and after a week of herbs and berries, we were faltering. Clan Lavellan found us, and Vess witnessed me healing a child that was near death and shouldn’t have been able to live. Vess got me to Uncle Aidan a few months ago, and we managed to settle the children in at Annreth. Your father’s allowed Clan Lavellan to stay there for a while as well, as the lands are good for grazing halla and they’ll be protected come winter.” 

Owen leaned back and studied the shadows the fire cast along the high ceiling. “They saved us. They had no reason to. Dalish try and avoid getting entangled in human affairs as much as possible, and the clan had been traveling to get somewhere safe before the roads closed between Kirkwall and Ostwick. They never keep more than two or three mages to a clan, and yet the Lavellans rescued a host of ten young mages and let us travel with them. It was not only Vess’s influence, but their Keeper, Deshara. He’s always believed in a closer relationship with human settlements, establishing trading partners and goodwill where he can. A Keeper’s job is to hold the past, but he believes it is also to move forward into this world fully and not simply remember what was. Vess couldn’t have found a better teacher. Even Mirana would have liked him, but you know she never sets foot in Dalish camps.” 

Evelyn snorted. “There is not a soul born into this world that can nurse a grudge better than Mirana.” 

Owen laughed. “She will take her anger to the grave.” 

“With her hair, are we certain she’s not actually a Rage demon and we’ve been lied to all this time?” Evelyn smiled. “After all, my dear friend Cole is a spirit of compassion who made himself a body.”

Owen blinked. “What?”

She reached out and took his hand. “You will be safe here, Owen, I promise. The Inquisition is a home for everyone who seeks to help: human, elf, dwarf, qunari, spirit, or incredibly cranky old wolf.”

“Fenalhan has never wanted to help anything in his life other than his stomach. And Mirana. That he tolerates the rest of us is a miracle surpassing understanding.” 

“She used to send him to wake me up. If I didn’t budge the first two times he nudged me, he’d bite my ankle, the shit.” 

They both laughed, and settled in closer, relaying stories of the years they’d missed until both grew hoarse and sounds of the banquet being laid rose up the staircase. 

…

It was near midnight when the soft knock sounded at his door. Cullen looked up from the map of western Orlais he’d been marking. The stack of intelligence reports from Leliana had provided a pattern of trade he’d been studying, but it was late enough that his vision swam slightly as he raised his head. 

“Come in,” he called.

The door opened and Evelyn slid through the narrow opening. She closed it behind her and leaned against it. She wore a loose linen night-rail fastened over a simple cotton shift beneath her cloak. With her hair bound only in a loose plait over her shoulder, Cullen was tempted to pinch his own arm to ensure this wasn’t another of his highly inappropriate dreams. 

He generally wasn’t bleary-eyed and exhausted in those dreams, so he was fairly certain he was awake. “Inquisitor.”

She gathered the cloak around herself against the chill of his office. He’d only had one brazier burning as most of the afternoon he’d fought a fever that had finally receded. She sat down in the chair he kept there for her and when she looked up and smiled at him, he could have sworn his heart nearly stopped. 

“I wanted to thank you,” she told him, “for everything you did this afternoon. I’ve already had someone order some expensive hothouse roses for Josie and bought a new litter of rescued nugs for Leliana. Somehow, neither seemed quite appropriate for you.” 

“Clearly you shall have to find a nug and give it a wreath of roses to wear and then we’ll be even.” 

She laughed, as he’d hoped she would, and the sound was like cool spring rain on his soul. She tilted her head to the side when truly amused, and he admired the long line of her neck in the soft glow of the brazier. He wondered what the skin would taste like beneath his tongue, yet felt as though he already knew, had always known. 

Her hands moved and he noticed she’d been holding a wooden box with squares of different color wood inlaid. “Oak and ash,” she told him, noticing his gaze. “Two strong Fereldan trees for a strong Fereldan Commander.” 

“Stop, I’ll blush.” 

“You already are.” 

He groaned. “I despise being pale.” 

She laughed again, and it was worth every ounce of embarrassment for that sound. She held the box out and he took it, noticing that the pattern continued to the other side. Evelyn placed her hands over his and opened the small brass latch gently. Inside, in velvet pouches, sat a full set of chessmen. “It’s not as nice as the table in the garden you and Dorian and Leliana play on,” she told him, “and it’s not a fancy, expensive rose. But this was my cousin Max’s. He taught me how to play, and he left this for me when he went off to become a Templar. Uncle Aidan brought it with my things from Ostwick. It...felt right to give it to you. Max was a good man, you would have liked him.” 

“Inquisitor-”

“Please,” she interrupted. “Right now, with just us...can it be Evelyn and Cullen, not Inquisitor and Commander? Only for a moment or two.” 

He could see the weight of it all behind her searching eyes, and Maker help him, he shouldn’t allow it, shouldn’t let her in. He was too scarred, too broken, but she was beautiful and so strong, and she had lost things too. Their hands were still entwined on the folding chess board and he swallowed. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He looked down at the board. “This is a wonderful gift, but you don’t have to give me anything, Evelyn.” 

She closed her eyes briefly, but made no move to pull her hands away. “The three of you anchored me today in a storm that might have otherwise swept me away. I’ve told you before of my uncle Aidan and the group I traveled with, but they are...they are the only reason I stayed sane, for a long time.” She took the chessboard from his hand and unfolded it, gently setting up the pieces. “Play a game with me?”

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t say no to the note of sadness in her voice. He nodded, and the pieces moved in practiced rhythm while she told him of her childhood. The cousin that was as close as a twin, the other cousin that was like a second mother who was horrifically killed in front of her. The way she’d lost her mind to rage, first with the hurlock, then locked in the darkness of a wine cellar, then later again when Owen was taken to the Circle and she didn’t find out until he was halfway there. The Templar who had to separate them, but was still kind and explained it all to them, who promised her he would get her letters to Owen if she wrote. The man who would become the Knight-Commander and then die in the rebellion, killed not by mages but by his own, under the influence of red lyrium. 

They played game after game, not even paying attention to who won and who lost. He told her of the farm, his siblings. His sister, so determined not to let go of him even when he didn’t want to be found. The parents he hadn’t let himself feel the pain of losing to the Blight, even as he knew how horrible it must have been for them, for his brother and sisters. How he knew even though she never wrote of it, how Mia must have led them all to safety. How he’d looked for them among the Fereldan refugees in Kirkwall without even realizing he was doing it.

He told her of Kirkwall. Not Kinloch Hold, not...not that. But Kirkwall he could speak of, not without pain or remorse, but he could speak of it. Evelyn told him stories from her time with the Hunters, and he found himself laughing, and understanding. In a way, her uncle Aidan reminded him strongly of Hawke, and he rather feared the two of them meeting. Aidan Trevelyan sounded a man capable of twice as much mayhem and mischief, and with every ounce of the same sort of infectious charm as the Champion wielded as skillfully as her blade. 

Cullen understood then what he hadn’t seen before: the bonds and families the deeply wounded would form. The people one could find and cling to in order to weather the storm. He’d never had that, never let himself seek it, instead clutching to the Order, to his duty, and when it failed him he’d had nothing. Cassandra had tossed him a rope to pull himself out of the mire, and now he had her, and so many others he’d never expected. Even the inscrutable Sera, who would bring him slices of cake purloined from the kitchen when she noticed he wasn’t eating. 

He had Evelyn. 

Evelyn who looked at him with trust and warmth. Evelyn who moved with him in the sparring ring as though she felt his movements before he made them, as though they had always trained together, as though she knew his body as well as he. As well as he wanted her to. 

Evelyn who would die to protect what she held dear, who would fight for what was right and just with unmatched tenacity. He had never trusted anyone as much as he trusted her. Maker, he had never  _ wanted _ anyone as much as he wanted her, not with this bone-deep attraction that went far beyond the physical. 

He had never lov-

Cullen closed his eyes against the dangerous thoughts that crept into his mind. He was tired, that was all. Tired and lonely, but that was not a burden for her shoulders. 

A soft sensation touched his cheek and his breath caught almost painfully in his chest. Her hand was warm, gentle. Fingers traced a path down the side of his face, across his cheekbones. Her callouses caught slightly on the stubble of his unshaved jaw. Ever so lightly, her fingertips brushed his lips and the scar that marred his upper lip. 

He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare open his eyes lest it break whatever sweet dream this was. 

A rustle of cloth and a gentle scent of something mint-like and herbal, beautiful and sharply green. The warm puff of breath, light tickle of hair. And then...oh, then, lips as soft as satin as they pressed so very gently against that same scar and withdrew. 

The lips pressed to each of his closed eyelids, and somehow the torrent of feeling within him was as tempestuous as the kisses were soft. She pressed her forehead to his with a soft sigh. “Cullen,” she whispered, and he wanted to capture his name on her breath, swallow it, take it within him so that he would never forget that someone in the world could speak of him with such longing. 

She pulled away slightly and he felt immeasurably colder. “I...I’m sorry. You don’t…I shouldn’t have presumed…” 

He opened his eyes, raised his hands to her precious, beautiful face, and pulled her down to him. His kiss was not as gentle, not as light, and Maker help him he could drown in it, drown in her and the small noise she made in the back of her throat. When he pulled back for breath, she leaned her brow against his once more, panting. A little bit of shock at himself rose up and he stammered an apology. “I’m sorry, that was…” he trailed off as she pulled back and looked at him with amusement, no longer unsure of herself. “That was, um, really nice.” He couldn’t stop looking at her slightly reddened lips long enough to focus on what idiotic words were actually coming out of his own. 

The sly smile those lips curled into shot heat straight through him. “Nice? Nice boys don’t kiss like that.” 

He huffed a surprised laugh. “Good thing I’m neither.” 

“Perhaps I am blessed, after all,” she murmured, and leaned forward.

This kiss was longer, languid, certain. She shivered when their tongues met and arched into his chest. He groaned when she gently pulled his lower lip between hers. Sliding his hand into her hair, he gently pulled her head back so at last he could press a kiss to her jaw and let his eager mouth learn the expanse of her neck. 

He found the soft hollow where her neck met her shoulder, and pressed a kiss there as he ran a finger along her collarbone to the exposed neckline of her shift and night-rail. Cullen pressed his lips to every bit of skin as he followed the fabric he slowly tugged over her shoulder. 

His fingers were still tucked into the fabric and his mouth on the soft flesh above her breast when a rapid knock sounded at the door. Cullen only had time to pull Evelyn’s nightclothes back over her shoulder before the door opened and a scout from the night patrol entered, looking down at a wooden message board in his hands. “Report for you, sir,” the scout said, then glanced up and froze.

They presented the poor unprepared scout with quite the tableau: the Inquisitor in her nightgown, hair mussed and lips swollen and reddened from being thoroughly and unmistakably kissed senseless, sitting in her Commander’s lap. Oh, Maker, her hand had found its way through his leather jerkin and shirt to his chest. Cullen hadn’t even noticed that happening. 

Something moved behind the scout, and the form of Lace Harding appeared, dressed for travel. She took one look at them, then one up at the other scout. “Okay, James, just...here, give me that.” Harding plucked the report from the scout’s hands and placed it on the bench by the door. She nodded once at Evelyn and Cullen, then firmly grabbed the taller human scout by his belt, wheeled him around, and marched him out the door, tugging it shut firmly behind her. 

For a good, long moment, neither of them moved. Then Evelyn’s shoulders began to shake beneath his fingers and she withdrew her hand from his clothes. She turned back to him, eyes alight with humor, hand covering her mouth to try and repress laughter, but it was no use. Cullen snorted as he glanced at the spot where Harding had left the report, making a mental note to increase her pay even as he gave in to laughter. 

Evelyn slid from his lap and re-braided her hair, straightening her mussed clothing as she did so. He watched her, fighting the urge to simply throw her over his shoulder and climb up the ladder with her. He didn’t want her to leave. He wanted to follow her if she did. He wanted. Oh, how he wanted. 

She grinned and pressed a final kiss to him before turning away. “I should go,” she said softly. “We’re both exhausted, and I want all my energy next time.” 

He could only sigh. “Good night, Evelyn.” 

“Good night, Cullen.” 

Eventually, he managed to climb up the ladder and flop into his bed, though not before staring at the chair she vacated for a long while. He half expected to toss and turn, troubled by nightmares or more voracious dreams, but instead he mercifully, wonderfully, fell into a deep and nearly instant sleep.

Her scent lingered, the fresh smell of green things and verdant life. If he dreamed at all, he dreamed of a garden in a gentle, cool summer rain, with the sweet taste of honeysuckle skin on his tongue.

  
  



	21. To Be Lost and Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT ahead.

The note came in the morning as she sat at her desk perusing correspondence. Her parents had written several letters that Aidan brought with him, and it was a pleasure to read them. They were safe, they were prospering, they were helping others. Never had she been more proud of her family, even if it was going to put her father in direct conflict with the Teyrn. Allowing a Dalish clan safe harbor, establishing a school for runaway apostate children...her least favorite uncle was going to lose his mind.

She should put Josephine on it, she supposed. The woman could work miracles. One of the letters noted that the Vael heir had returned to Starkhaven and consolidated his rule, and the last thing they needed was an alliance between the notoriously pious prince and her uncle’s wretched wife. Her fanaticism was abhorrent and she’d pulled the Teyrn down that road with her. 

Evelyn tapped her quill against her lip, considering. Owen was by all legal bounds the rightful heir to Ostwick. They hadn’t discussed it, of course, but they would have to. Maker only knew how long the Inquisition would last, how long she would need to inhabit this role. 

If she even survived it, of course. 

No, there was no use thinking that way. The sun had painted the mountains golden, a mild breeze blew through the open balcony door, the sounds of the courtyard provided a pleasant backdrop to her thoughts. 

She had been kissed, at last. She dropped the quill on the blotter and sat back in her chair, cradling her cup of Antivan coffee. Ah, that kiss. He’d tasted of honeyed tea and his skin held the scent of crisp winter air and some wondrously clean herbal scent that she knew came from Dennet and his small Fereldan army. Evelyn had laughed at him when he expressed his relief at not having to use ‘Orlesian flowery nonsense’ from Leliana’s soap stash any longer. He could have used the simple lye soap most of the soldiers used, but she found this penchant of his for nice scents endearing. 

He seemed to gravitate towards smells that were fresh and botanical and unmistakably Fereldan. Elfroot and pine, elderflower, oak moss, anything that smelled like the countryside, she realized. Cullen had told her of his family’s farm - was it a life he missed, after giving it all up? 

She had largely given up Annreth, though at her parents’ encouragement to find space and time to heal. Yet she had never really considered going back, even knowing she was the heir and having trained for it. The girl who was excited to be the Bann’s right hand and eventually the Bann herself was...gone. Or asleep, perhaps.

Evelyn thought of the fields of barley and wheat, the same color in the autumn as the eyes that had looked at her with such heat the night before. The green of the hops ready to harvest, the white of the almond grove and the sweet almond flower honey. The groves of plums and peaches and the pies her mother made every summer, shooing the kitchen staff out and rolling out the dough herself. The green rolling hills bordering the land where the goats would roam, and now the halla from the settled Dalish clan. 

A pang of longing, such a sweet, sharp ache, filled her. Whether that was for Annreth or simply for the very idea of having a future, she couldn’t say. But she wanted it. She folded the mental picture of Cullen wandering through the hops up and tucked it into her soul, near her heart. Never had she thought of a single lover beyond the immediate, but somehow Cullen Rutherford had worked his way into this secret little fantasy of hers. And that was after only a handful of kisses and a brief exchange of panting breath. 

She was in deep, deep trouble. It felt glorious. Indulgent, frightening, new and fragile, but wonderful. 

If it wasn’t a mistake. If he didn’t pull away. If...shit. 

Evelyn shook herself. He had kissed her back with a pent-up passion that made her squirm in her chair remembering it. It couldn’t just be an impulse born of loneliness, could it? Maker take it all, the man could have his pick of willing bed partners in the Inquisition. But it was her mouth that he’d devoured like a drowning man gasped air. It was her neck he’d trailed his lips over, her shoulder he’d softly scraped with his teeth, her breast his hand had curved possessively around. 

She was no stranger to desire, but this was something new, something different, and she didn’t think it was just the effect of her repressed urges suddenly breaking free. When he touched her, for a moment, it felt as though she’d been waiting her whole life for the feeling of his body against hers. Like he was a missing part of her that her skin recognized.  _ Oh, here you are, at last _ .

The stack of reports on the corner of her desk bore a note on top that was in his handwriting. She reached over and unfolded it, biting her lip in dismay at the formal opening.

_ Inquisitor, _

_ When you have a moment this morning, I have an urgent matter to discuss regarding the Templars and their commander. Please meet me at your earliest convenience. _

She sighed and folded the note back up, almost missing the postscript that was written in a more hasty manner.

_ That was real, wasn’t it, Evelyn? I did not imagine it? Tell me I did not imagine it.  _

Evenlyn thought for a moment, then grinned and reached for her quill, penning a quick note in return. 

_ Commander, _

_ If you would be so kind, please bring the information to my quarters. My desk is far less burdened and I want to give your report the entirety of my attention. _

_ I did promise you all of my energy, if I did not imagine it as well. _

She gave the note to the honor guard outside her chambers, along with instructions to admit the Commander when he arrived with his reports. Evelyn forced herself to remain calm and sift through the remaining items on her desk so she could actually give Cullen all of her attention. Doubtless there really was a matter he wished to discuss about the Templars. He was not the sort of man to make flimsy excuses. 

Of notable concern was Leliana’s report on this Fairbanks character that had reached out to them. She read it as she finished her coffee and reached for the pot, considering. The Freemen of the Dales sounded dangerous, and this Fairbanks was an unknown entity as well. She didn’t particularly trust his refusal to give information to anyone but herself. That hadn’t gone well in the bogs of the Fallow Marsh after all. 

Should she head there first, en route to the Western Approach? They’d need to get through the Exalted Plains, and from there it was only a short distance south through the Dales to the area known as the Emerald Graves. Which sounded macabre and depressing, as much of the Dales were. 

But the situation with the Wardens was deeply concerning. She couldn’t recall anything about the Wardens from her glimpse of the dark future in Redcliffe, but the two biggest variables on the board were a supposed demon army and the assassination of Empress Celene. Josephine and Leliana were working in tandem on getting eyes into Halamshiral, but they still had no solid leads on demons in any number that could count as an army. 

Had she thrown a wrench in that plan by sealing the Breach? Perhaps, but she didn’t want to sit on her heels. There were still unpredictable and dangerously infected Templars and a hostile cult of Tevinter imperialists to deal with, of course, but she didn’t want to lose sight of additional threats. 

It was all a giant chessboard where she didn’t know all the pieces yet, and that was disquieting. 

A throat clearing drew her attention away from the reports and she blinked. Cullen sat across her desk, balancing a rolled up map on his knee, having dragged an armchair from the fire over, all without her noticing. He’d also either brought a tea tray with him or had time to send for one while she was immersed in thought. 

He smirked at her. “Work first, then?”

Her stomach rumbled. “Crumpets first. Then work. Then, I would very much like to hear your thoughts on last night.”

“I’m not sure what you’re speaking of, Inquisitor,” he said lightly and for a moment her stomach dropped to her ankles. But he was still smiling, his eyes practically dancing with reflected sunlight. “Perhaps you could refresh my memory? With a demonstration, if it becomes necessary?”

Now  _ here _ was a game she knew the rules of better than chess. “I’ll see what I can do, Commander.” She bit into her crumpet. “Now, to work. Show me this map you were marking up last night.” 

His mind was as sharp and quick as his sword arm, and she couldn’t help but admire how quickly he’d spotted the pattern by compiling Josephine’s and Leliana’s reports alongside his own. He’d identified potential red lyrium trade routes faster than their own spymaster, though Evelyn had wanted Leliana’s attention on the Venatori, largely, and making sure Orlais didn’t get in their way. She’d figured they could track the Templars they’d come to refer to as ‘Red Templars’ decently enough as they were hardly subtle in their actions and their appearance. 

Yet Cullen had taken it a step further and not only tracked several of their strongholds, but also their lyrium supply. It was fascinating to her that while he had the advantage of knowing how Templars thought and acted, he didn’t quite think like a Templar himself. Whether or not that was due to his eschewment of lyrium, she couldn’t say, necessarily. Perhaps it helped, but behind that was a mind that was a strategic and tactical force of nature, that now unleashed from the blind obedience the Chantry demanded, was showing itself in stunning clarity. 

“I’m lucky to have you,” she said aloud, without quite meaning to. 

He looked up from the map, stopping mid-sentence. His confidence seemed to falter a little as he cleared his throat again, this time not intentionally. “I...ah, thank you.” 

She sat forward and put the report she held down. “I mean it, Cullen. Commander. This is excellent work, and a brilliant plan. I am lucky to have your support and your mind, and the Inquisition is more than fortunate to have you as one of our leaders. Your strength of will alone is invaluable to us, and to me. I feel as though…” she trailed off, cursing herself as heat rose into her cheeks. She didn’t blush, that wasn’t a thing she did. 

“You feel as though…?” he prompted, and the naked vulnerability in his voice that he tried to mask with sly humor shattered any embarrassment she might have felt. 

Evelyn looked back at him and held his gaze firmly. “I feel as though when I lack faith in myself, I only need to look to you. I still cannot quite believe that this is all real, and happening at times; everything has coalesced so quickly, like a hurricane of madness. I have somehow found myself at the head of a movement when this time last year I was sampling the harvest ale a little too much before the annual festival and finding new and creative and rather unsavory uses for the grease we used on cheese wheels for the races. Somehow, that idiot has become marked by fate and a savior and at times I...I don’t know exactly who I am any longer when so many eyes are projecting what they need on me. But you see me. When you look at me, you see me and I can see myself. I don’t know how else to explain it.” 

“You don’t have to,” he told her, something like wonder in his voice. “I understand completely. I also...I...that is...well, you said it better than I ever could, but yes, I feel the same, Evelyn. I don’t know how you see me when I can’t remember who I was before...before everything, but you are a rope that guides me back to myself, somehow.” 

She reached across the desk and took his hand. “Can we do this? If it wasn’t clear from last night, I have feelings for you. Feelings I don’t know what to do with, I’ve never...I never let myself...I never thought I deserved it. I don’t know if I do now, but I want...I  _ want _ . I want like I’ve never wanted anything.” 

He covered her hand with his other palm, and the warmth of him made her shudder pleasantly. “I couldn’t bear not to. I didn’t think it was possible, and I never wanted to add to your burdens. I’m...not...well, not the easiest man to...I don’t know how to do this, but I want to.” 

“Then let’s find our way together?” she asked, mentally cursing as a knock on the door below signalled her usual warning a few minutes before their war council. 

Cullen lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. She sighed softly at the feel of his lips, and her heart felt full. “Together.” He let go of her and stood, rapping his knuckles on the map. “Head to the Western Approach first,” he told her, the Commander once more. “Let our scouts and advance companies deal with these Freemen and confirm some of my suspicions - the Wardens concern me greatly. They have a number of powerful mages and deadly warriors at their disposal. If nothing nefarious is at hand, then we could benefit greatly from an alliance, which only you really have the skill to negotiate.”

She winced slightly. “Do I?”

He looked at her, a little surprised. “Of course. Evelyn, we didn’t want you in the role of Inquisitor solely because of your mark or the talk of being Andraste’s herald. You’re a born leader and it shows. You might feel as though you’re caught in a hurricane, but you  _ are _ the storm. Never forget that.” 

“If you keep talking like that, I’m going to kiss you and we’ll never leave this room and then Josephine will be very disappointed in us.”

His eyes fell to her mouth. “I could live with a little disappointment.” 

“Could you live with Leliana’s barely veiled teasing?”

“That is highly dependent on how good a kiss it is.” 

She laughed, despite herself. “I may be a little out of practice, ser, but I assure you, it’ll be good.” She rounded the desk and looked up at him coyly, pushing herself onto her toes to bring her mouth close to his ear. He stood unmoving but she could feel the coiled tension in him and longed to unleash it. “After the war council,” she whispered, and poked him solidly in the ribs.

Cullen backed up half a step with a surprised huff, then shook his head ruefully, chuckling. “How do I keep falling for that?”

Evelyn grinned and handed him his map. “Because I’m good at this.” 

The look on his face was enough to make her toes curl. “I look forward to the promised demonstration, then.” 

…

  
  


Owen had located the infirmary, and Cole had located Owen. The spirit boy followed Owen around with complete and utter fascination bordering on adoration. Not even the mundane surgeon could resist Owen’s charm and personality, and Evelyn watched with fascination how the prickly Fereldan quickly became her cousin’s newest devotee. 

She found Solas in the training yard, leaning calmly against the wooden fence with a plain quarterstaff nearby and, of all things, Fenalhan sitting calmly next to him. Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “Traitor,” she told the wolf. “He’s not even family, and you’re nice to him?” To Solas, she added, “Do you know how many bite marks I have? Fen doesn’t like anyone except Mirana, and barely tolerates the rest of us, even Aidan.” 

Solas set a hand on the wolf’s raised head. “I suppose I have a way with animals. They’ve always liked me.” 

She leaned on the fence next to him. “Except for bears.”

He snorted delicately. “Bears do not care for anyone.” 

“True enough.” A clatter of wooden staff on staff drew her attention, and for a few minutes she watched Aidan train another set of mages on using their staff as a physical weapon. “Helping Aidan train the mages?”

“Your uncle is remarkably skilled with a quarterstaff. It’s a pleasure to spar against him.” He tilted his head. “How did he meet your aunt? A human and a Dalish elf is an unusual pairing.”

“I saved his life,” came Mirana’s lilting voice from behind them. She vaulted over the fence and sat upon the ground next to her wolf, who laid his head happily in her lap. “But then he saved Fen, so we decided we were even and I would work with him for a while.” She shrugged lightly. “The rest is, as I’m told, history. He’s a hard one to resist, and more honorable than any elf I’ve known.” 

Evelyn stiffened slightly, expecting a terse response from Solas, as he often sparred with Sera over similar insults. But Solas merely tilted his head again, looked down at Mirana, and asked softly in Elvhen, “What happened?”

Mirana looked at him for a long moment, then down at the wolf in her lap. She sighed. “I’m certain Evelyn’s told you that I no longer travel with my clan,” she responded in Common, “and you’ve no doubt noticed I bear no vallaslin.”

“That is no crime,” he said firmly.

That earned a half-smile. “It is to many. To my clan, it is the worst possible punishment, to be cast out before being given your writing. ‘Twas the eve of it, you know,” she continued, looking at Evelyn, “did I ever tell you that?”

Evelyn shook her head slightly. “No. You’ve spoken of it little, and I never wanted to press.” 

Mirana’s hand buried itself in Fen’s fur, and he whined softly, blinking up his mistress with clear eyes, despite his age. “I was twelve, the age of dedication. I’ve always been a dab hand with a bow and a promising hunter, so I thought Anuil would be a fine choice. I never really believed in any sort of god, you know that, but I liked the stories. My clan, though, was very superstitious, and our Keeper the equivalent of the Divine in the fervency of her faith in the old Elven gods.” 

Solas grunted something but silenced his own disdain for the Dalish with a long drink of water from his waterskin. Whatever it was, however, Mirana heard it and snorted softly. “You are not wrong,” she told him. “The Keeper was big on ceremony for the vallaslin, and they often included some sort of offering. For Andruil, I was told to hunt a brace of hares. This was no difficult task normally, but the woods I was sent to were full of Sylvans. You can imagine how that went.” 

“Did the Keeper know that?” Evelyn asked, aghast. She’d not fought the demon-possessed trees before, but knew of them from Aidan’s stories of past exploits. They were the stuff of nightmares, and the idea of sending a twelve-year-old girl into such dangerous woods alone was astounding. 

“Our clan once lived close to the Korcari Wilds. I’d seen worse, but never alone and with only a bow, arrow, and three hunting knives.” She sighed. “Yes, the Keeper knew. She thought only the fervency of a truly devoted disciple of Andruil would or should survive. I was not very devoted. I won’t bore you with the details of that night, but it was...unpleasant. I only survived because this lump of fur here took great pity on me and leaped to my defense. Together, we fought our way out, and he’s been by my side ever since.”

Evelyn grimaced. “No wonder you left your clan after that.”

“I didn’t leave, Evie. I was disowned and exiled.” 

Even Solas looked shocked, which was impressive given his already low opinion of Dalish customs. “What?” He asked. “Whatever for?”

Mirana looked down fondly at the wolf, who was delighting in her ministrations, with his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a pleased mabari. “Because I walked blood-stained and battered back into the camp dragging not a brace of hares, but the wooden body of a dead Sylvan in tow, and a wolf at my heels. I had some choice words for the Keeper, but the clan of course sided with her. They could not believe such an animal would help of its own accord, and accused me of being in league with Fen’Harel.” She laughed lightly. “And that was the nicest way to put it.” 

Solas blinked and fairly spluttered in his outrage. “How completely preposterous!” 

Mirana laughed again. “Of course it was! Though I was known to be a bit of a mischievous handful, so to them it was the final straw to prove I was a disciple of the trickster god. What rot,” she said with a sigh. “I am well rid of them. I took their knowledge of fighting, their herbal lore, their training, and I made my own way without them. I have found and grown a new family, a new clan, and I am immeasurably the happier for it. Myself and my spirit-possessed lump of fur and teeth.” 

“Fenalhan is…” Evelyn trailed off in shock, then shook herself. “Of course he is. What sort of spirit? Protection? Is that a thing?”

Solas hummed slightly. “I’m not certain. Something paternal and protective, certainly.” Then he laughed lightly to himself. “How full of surprises your family is, lethallan. I should have expected such, I suppose.” 

Evelyn grinned. “We’re an odd bunch, Solas. I don’t think anyone could expect us.” 

A clatter startled them, and she turned back to the training ring, where Jesper had joined the fray. “Ah,” Mirana said softly, “this will be fun.” 

Jesper held a sword and shield similar to the tower shields Templars used, and together he and his father showed the gathered mages just how to fight against them without magic. A few Templars had gathered as well, making remarks upon the effectiveness of the shield and the ineffectiveness of the sword. They paused and Jesper set his shield down. “Better with an actual Templar,” he called. “Who wants to volunteer?”

Rylen hopped in the ring with decided energy, and Aidan called for one of the better mages, which happened to be Dorian. Rylen grinned at him. “All right, Tevinter. Let’s do this a few times without magic and then step it up? I trust you not to singe me too badly.” 

Dorian, to his credit, laughed loudly. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying through that Starkhaven growl, Captain.” 

Rylen’s grin only got wider. “Bollocks, you’re just sore I beat you at chess.” 

Evelyn snorted through her laughter. “Boys,” she called, “play nice.” 

“That’s no fun,” Dorian complained. “I like playing dirty.” 

“That’s why you always lose,” Rylen pointed out. 

Dorian gave the Knight-Captain a slow and sultry smile that - Evelyn was not particularly surprised to note - had quite the unintended effect on Rylen. “Oh, there are dirty things I win at, Captain.” To his credit, Rylen recovered quickly and covered his embarrassment by turning and grabbing a shield. 

Evelyn traded a knowing look with Solas, who seemed highly entertained. She left him with her aunt to watch the spectacle, and went in search of something to eat. 

…

  
  


It was dreadfully late by the time Cullen managed to join Evelyn in her quarters. All thought of ardor had fled along with a roiling stomach ache and pounding pain in his head. But he wanted to see her, hear her voice. She would leave within a day or two, and he did not want to pass up the opportunity to be with her. 

The words he’d put together to explain himself fled as soon as he caught sight of her face. She looked as worn as he, giving him a wide but weary smile from her seat on the chaise before the fire. She said nothing, but lifted the edge of her blanket for him. 

Cullen kicked off his boots and nestled with her tucked up against his chest as though they had always done so. It was oddly more intimate than half the idle thoughts that had run through his excited mind earlier that day. She peered up at him, then placed a hand on the back of his neck, and he sighed as the coolness of her fingers dulled the pain. With her other hand, she gently took his fingers and rubbed at spot on the back of his hand with her thumb, and soon he relaxed into her ministrations. 

“You deserve someone whole,” he told her softly, after a time.

Evelyn stirred and looked up at him again. “I deserve someone brave,” she told him. “For it takes courage to love me, I’m afraid. There are none more brave than you.” 

He wanted to argue. He should argue, but he was so tired of fighting to keep everyone else at arm’s length. So tired of hiding behind armor and being told that faith alone should be enough to see him through any challenge, any pain, any horror. Especially when that faith had meant lyrium. He wasn’t a Templar any longer, and if he wanted to, he could damn well hold a woman in his arms, even if she bore a mark of unknown and dangerous magic. He wore precious little armor on his body, when he could manage. Perhaps it was time to do the same with his heart. 

Ever so softly, he kissed the tip of her nose and laughed lightly as she wrinkled it. Pain lanced through his skull again, and he winced, sighing and leaning his head back against the soft arm of the chaise. Evelyn resumed stroking his hand as a distraction and softly caressed his brow. A part of him felt guilty that she was taking care of him when she had so many other burdens, but the rest of him felt light and warm and cherished in a way he could not recall feeling since childhood. 

It was the easiest thing in the world to lose himself to it. 

...

  
  


She would have liked to move him to the bed with her, but decided against it as he would more than likely demure and leave. So she tucked the blanket around him soundly and left him to what she sincerely hoped would be untroubled dreams. Her own proved to be calm and vague, which was a blessing. 

Evelyn had been awake for a little while when Cullen finally stirred on the chaise. She smiled over the rim of her coffee cup as he blinked owlishly at her. It took a moment for him to register where he was, but then he groaned softly and ran a hand over his face. “Maker,” he rasped. “I’ve never done that before.” 

She snorted, nearly inhaling the coffee. After a cough to clear it from her throat, she drawled, “That’s usually a statement that accompanies a far more exciting evening. Or a horrid one.” 

He sat up gingerly, stretching and wincing at obvious stiffness in his neck. “I am terribly sorry, Evelyn. That was not the evening you’d hoped for, I’d imagine.” 

“It wasn’t so bad,” she told him, smiling. “I got to hold a very handsome man in my arms. Now, to the bath with you. I’ve drawn up some water, should be nice and hot. It will help with the stiffness. Can’t have you limping and frowning out of here, what would people think of my prowess as a lover?”

He laughed lightly. “I’m certain Bull would have some notes.” 

“Bath,” she told him, nodding her head toward her bathing chamber. “Off with you.” 

She drank her coffee and gave him a good ten minutes to use the necessary and get settled in the tub. Her wondrous, blessedly large bathtub that she could kiss Josephine for ordering. Though at the time, her only inclination had been space to stretch. Now, her mind had conjured far better uses of it. 

Cullen opened one eye as she entered, then sat up, blushing. “Ah, Evelyn. Did you need something?”

“A bath,” she told him simply, and watched in amusement as he processed the words. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have been lingering so. Thank you for letting me use-” His words cut off as she effectively captured his lips in what she considered a far, far better occupation. It took him only a moment to recover from his instinctive hesitation, and then his warm, wet hands were cupping her face, and he kissed her back with enthusiasm. 

Evelyn grinned as she pulled away, sliding one of his damp fingers between her lips and teeth. He inhaled sharply and she watched him swallow, his eyes dark as he watched her slide her nightgown down her shoulders and off. She could practically feel the weight of his eyes on her skin as he traced her form. She rarely let anyone see all of her like this. After all, there were scars, the heavier pain in the stories behind them, but he had scars of the same kind and with him, she wasn’t afraid to bare everything. 

That was the sort of thing one should stop and think about, she supposed, but right at the moment she had Cullen Rutherford naked in her bathtub. Thinking was the last thing she wanted to do. He dragged his eyes back to hers, and the look of absolutely naked desire on his face made her bite her lip to bring her senses back down to herself. His gaze dropped to follow the motion and a strangled sound escaped him. He began to haul himself up out of the water, but she put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. 

Silently, she slid into the water behind him and pulled his back flush against her, her legs wrapping around his. The soap and oil in the water made their skin slick, and she practically purred as her flesh slid against his. Gently, she traced her fingers up his back and unable to resist the temptation, she nibbled slightly at his shoulder. He groaned and she replaced teeth with tongue, ignoring the bitter bite of bath oil and focusing instead on the smooth warmth of his skin. 

With her hands, she began to gently massage the knotted, tense muscles of his shoulders and neck, and with a long sigh, he relaxed into her touch. Eventually, he leaned so far back into her that his head rested on her own shoulder and she could no longer fit her hands between them. Instead, she let them roam his chest, admiring unblemished and scarred skin alike, fingers dancing teasingly over his abdomen. 

She kissed the side of his face as her fingers danced lower, but he was taller than she and there was only so low she could reach. He laughed when she growled in frustration and twisted around to kiss her soundly. She squirmed lower, itching to get her hands around his cock. If there was one thing she loved, it was watching a lover come apart under her hands. Or her mouth. Or…

But Cullen was evidently not the sort of lover who would blindly follow her lead. With a great splash, he got his arms around her and reversed their position. Evelyn spluttered slightly and reached up to wipe water from her face. Which of course only left her face more damp. He chuckled and reached for the soap. “What are you doing?”

He gave her a grin that could melt flesh from bone. “You wanted a bath.” 

She watched him curiously as he lathered his hands, and then realized his intent and - absurdly, given where her mind had just wandered - blushed. Yet as his fingers roamed, caressed, soaped, and rinsed every inch of her body, she could not recall a single time she had been more aroused. 

There were only one or two lovers she’d ever let occasionally take charge in the bedroom and then it was because she wanted something rough and fast. Something that would let her unleash herself and only be an animal with little conscious thought, aching to forget the world and all her pain. This was different. Not since Eamon had she been with anyone as tender, but not even Eamon compared. 

He held her gaze as his hands traveled over her again and again. With anyone else she might have felt trapped, pinned beneath his amber eyes like a field mouse under a hawk. She somehow felt more naked, more bare to him, by meeting his eyes honestly and openly without the pretense of being the seductress. It might have been terrifying, but it wasn’t. It felt as though eternity consisted of candlelight, steam, hot water, and skin that smelled of warm vanilla, sage, and bergamot. 

Cullen’s fingertips brushed her cheek, and she opened her lips just in time to catch his thumb in her mouth. The tip of his skin was pruning in the water, and it was rough on her tongue. She closed her mouth around his finger and felt his shudder and groan as though it was her own. Gone were the thoughts of seducing him and controlling the unfolding of events, of exulting in her own expertise and ability to bring a lover to the height of pleasure. 

Oh, she wanted him to be lost, but she wanted to be lost with him. She didn’t want to know what either of them would do next, she only wanted to feel. 

Cullen pulled away and moments later he was out of the tub and grabbing a long bath linen. She would have been hurt, but her mind was dazed and lagging several steps behind. He wrapped the linen around himself quickly, though the fabric did little to hide his arousal. She hadn’t even gotten a proper look at it yet!

But then all thought fled again as he reached for her, mouth finding hers almost frantically, and hands pulling her from the water. Soon she was wrapped in her own linen and lifted in his arms, with hardly a pause for air to break the seal of their lips. He could have carried her out into the Great Hall and made love to her on the wooden tables to the cheering of visiting nobles and she would not have noticed or cared. His tongue, the slide of his lips against hers, the taste of him was her whole existence. 

It was her own bedsheets that greeted her back, clinging to her wet skin, though Cullen had attempted to dry them both off. He gave up and she pulled her linen and his from him and tossed them to the floor, letting her eyes drink in his form in the soft glow of morning sun. Broad shoulders, a smattering of freckled skin on his forearms and largely smooth chest, slim hips and powerful, long legs. He looked at her with the same intense hunger and she only had to lift up her head slightly before he descended upon her and claimed her mouth once more. 

He trailed kisses down her neck, his hands cupped around her breasts. When his lips met his fingers and pulled a nipple into his mouth, she arched into him and whimpered, legs widening in silent plea. She gripped the back of his head as he lavished attention on her taut and touch-starved breasts, her fingers digging into his hair. Her body rocked against his nearly of its own accord, the heat between her legs seeking relief until finally he reached down between them and slid those long, beautiful fingers of his against her dampness. It took him moments only to locate that one spot that sent shivers through her, and he honed in on it with every ounce of the intense focus she’d seen in the training ring.

Between his fingers below and his tongue circling a captive nipple, she came apart with record speed, shuddering and crying out. It was glorious, but too soon, not enough. Not nearly enough to quench the fire that had been stoked. Cullen looked up at her once her breathing slowed and she could open her eyes. He looked quite pleased with himself, one hand resting across her lower abdomen. His erection still pressed against her thigh, but he was in no apparent hurry, watching her flush and recover with equal parts satisfaction and desire. 

Well, enough of that. 

Cullen let out a startled yelp as she pushed him over from his side onto his back. She caught his lip between her teeth and his surprise changed to a low groan as she pressed her weight down on him, sliding her breasts along his chest and aligning her hips with his. Sitting upright, she reached down and wrapped one hand along the length of him - and Maker’s breath, it was perfect. Long but not intimidating, with a pleasing thickness and hard as stone beneath her fingers. His eyes practically rolled back in his head head as she took his cock and seated herself on its entirety. 

It had been quite a while since she’d last been touched and kissed and filled with another. Even then, she was not quite prepared for how it felt to be straddling Cullen, with his cock seated deep inside and his eyes closed in ecstasy. His hands grasped her hips, her buttocks, her thighs, and she felt the power of him beneath her, fingertips splayed on his stomach. She rocked her hips and his eyes flew open, watching her with a desire that was so much more than simple lust. This was-

“Perfect,” he whispered, reaching up to cup her face, “you are perfect.”

A fierce possessiveness and something else she dare not name yet rose up within her and she rocked again on his hardness, eliciting another low and delicious moan. This man, this perfect, solid, warm, wonderful, brilliant man, was coming undone for her. He was hers. She would drive every thought he’d ever had of anyone else from his mind. She would drive out every shadow, every demon, every dark thought. They could not have him. He was hers.

She set a rhythm and he matched it, holding her hips and driving deeper. She lost herself wholly to it, to the touches of fire he stoked in her skin, the sound of their mingled moans and soft cries. He pulled her down flush against him and took over the pace and she let him, for she was also his. He filled her senses, her mind, her body. He fit into her and against her perfectly, as though that space had always been his to claim. And it was. It must be, for she could imagine no one else there. No one but him. She would empty herself of all memory save his touch, the feeling of them joined, the building tension of their bodies, the sound of his moans against her skin and how it made her shiver with such intense pleasure.

His strong arms locked around her and his pace increased. She curved her back to get him closer to that elusive, deep place of pleasure inside. She found the perfect angle and it must have been good for him as well, as he grunted in surprised pleasure while she threw her head back and practically growled. The thrusts came harder, faster, and it was so good, so perfect, with his arms holding her in place as she quivered and came apart at the seams. Her moans turned into cries and she panted his name with more reverence than the Chant of Light had ever elicited from her lips. 

When she came, her whole body shuddered almost violently, and her cry of pleasure was low and long. He held her tightly and prolonged her pleasure with a few hard thrusts as he followed her over the edge with a shout, his body jerking beneath her, his mouth finding her body and laying claim to her shoulder with a gentle bite as they rode the diminishing waves of pleasure together. 

It was a long while before either of them moved, and then Cullen only shifted enough to slide her off and over onto her side. He pulled her back into his arms and curled his whole body around hers, her head pillowed on his inner arm. With the other arm around her waist, he stroked her stomach and side slowly with his hand. 

“You,” he said finally, when their breathing had slowed somewhat, “are remarkable.” 

It took some effort, but she rolled over to face him. There was a faint sheen of sweat from their exertions, but he looked bemused and sated and ruffled and...happy. He looked happy, and that knowledge stole her breath in its intensity. For at least a moment in this crazy, mad word, she had made him happy. 

He reached over to caress the side of her face and her heart felt full to bursting. She smiled at him and had the sudden, ridiculous urge to cry. She closed her eyes against it and leaned into his hand. “You are perfect,” she told him hoarsely.  _ And I am happy with you.  _

That’s what this must be, this intense golden glow of a feeling, she knew. When she opened her eyes again, he was smiling, widely and openly. The moment was only ruined by the loud and rather insistent grumbling of his stomach, and he disentangled his limbs from hers reluctantly. Evelyn thought about protesting or pouting, but he only walked the short distance to her desk where a covered tray sat. She blinked.

“When did that arrive?” she asked, rather terrified of the answer.

He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “I believe it was while we were in the bath.” 

She blushed, of all absurd things. “Well, that’s better than...ah...well.” 

“Stuttering in embarrassment is more my thing than yours,” he told her, laughing, as he brought the tray over to the bed. 

Her blushes were forgotten as she watched him, graceful even as he walked naked across her room. “You can bring me breakfast like this any morning,” she commented saucily. 

Cullen snorted softly. “There she is.” He took the lid off the tray and picked up a blackberry from the bowl of fruit, and popped it into her open and waiting mouth. “I was afraid my bold Evelyn had disappeared for a moment.” 

“She’s never going to be too far away while you’re swanning around in all your glory.” She picked up another berry, dipped it in the clotted cream beside it and licked her finger. His eyes followed the movement of her lips even as he chewed on an apple slice and broke open a steaming bun for butter. 

“This is undoubtedly the finest way to eat breakfast,” he told her, his eyes traveling over her own nakedness. “We should do this more often.” 

“Yes, please,” she replied, laughing as she sat up. She reached over the side of the bed and retrieved her nightrail, tying it around her. Cullen merely tucked himself beneath some of the blankets after retrieving the coffee pot from her desk for her. 

After a few moments of companionable silence over breakfast, he stirred and looked at her uncertainly over the rim of his teacup. “That was...that was all right, wasn’t it?”

She blinked at him in surprise. “I...yes?”

“I mean,” he tried again, “I’m no blushing virgin, but I’m not the most experienced lover. Everything I’ve done...well, it was always sort of rushed and generally clandestine. I didn’t want to rush you, Evie. I had planned to take it slowly, but, well…” he trailed off and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Do you regret it?” she asked, setting her coffee down.

It was his turn to blink in surprise. “No! Of course not. Not for the world. Do you?”

She shook her head. “Not a second of it. That was the best sex I’ve ever had.” 

A very slow grin spread across his face. “Oh, really?”

Evelyn met his eyes boldly. “Oh, yes. I suppose it really is different when you care so much,” she added, more to herself than to him, but the pleased look on his face was worth any embarrassment. 

“I suppose so,” he echoed, and they both grinned like idiots. 

He set his teacup down and poured her some more coffee. “People will talk.”

“Do you mind?”

Cullen shrugged. “I would prefer our private life to remain private. But I’m certain after the interruption in my office, word was already spreading. I’d regret not having this more than any possible gossip. I suppose I should be concerned about the reputation of our Herald, but I can’t find it in me to care.” 

Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “Andraste was no virgin. She was a married woman with children, who may or may not have been Shartan’s lover as well.” 

“Don’t let Cassandra hear you say that,” he said laughing. 

“I am fortunate you don’t mind my heresy quite as much as Cass.” Evelyn popped another blackberry in her mouth. 

He shrugged. “The subject of Andraste’s purity has never bothered me much. She was a warrior. People forget that. They forget the toll that war takes on people, even those blessed by a higher power. A woman doesn’t need to be pure to be powerful.” 

She smiled. “There you are, then. But I was never pure to begin with, so people will have to accept what is and not what they want to see.” 

Cullen looked askance at her. “You mentioned women in your past.”

“I did. Does that bother you?”

“No! No. I just...wondered...well.”

Evelyn laughed, and took a drink of her coffee while he shifted under her gaze. “Cullen Rutherford, are you asking for details?”

He cleared his throat. “I know, er...I know that some women do enjoy the company of other women in bed, I’d just...okay, yes, fine, I confess I am curious as to the logistics.” He laughed at himself along with her. “I have, on occasion,” he confessed, “been intimate with another man, but it was never really my preference.”

She blinked at him. “What, really?”

Cullen nodded, but busied himself with the tea pot. “Does that bother you?”

“No, not at all. I’m merely...I suppose life in the Circle was stifling for both mages and Templars. It’s no surprise you might seek release and comfort wherever you could find it.”

“It was not often, and never once I was made officer.” He sighed. “I haven’t been with anyone in a long time.” 

“Nor I,” she told him. “Not since Harvestmere last year and my rather inventive use for cheese racing grease. But that was an altogether unsatisfactory experience. Orgies always seem like a fun and exciting idea, but they’re rather disorganized, messy, and someone’s elbow is always in your face.”

Cullen nearly choked on his pastry with laughter. “Maker’s breath, woman,” he gasped after a long drink of tea. “You’ve organized orgies and yet I’m the best sex you’ve had?”

“By leaps and bounds, yes.” She contemplated the swirl of her coffee, and thought about remaining silent, but remembered that intense feeling of possessiveness, of being possessed in return. She’d claimed him, in some primal, unspoken way. He deserved her courage. “For a long time, the only way I could feel anything at all was through excess and danger. Of all the nonsensical things, it took even greater danger to snap me out of that haze. Or I guess...purpose.”

Evelyn set her coffee cup down on her end table and sat back against the headboard of the bed. “When I was a little girl, my life was filled with purpose. I am my father’s heir, and while Annreth is not a great city or even a great estate by most standards, it is a responsibility that my family takes most seriously. Annreth is a prosperous hold within Ostwick’s bounds, and my father has made our farms and tenants rich and productive. It is his great joy to run the estate, and a joy he passed on to me as a little girl. By the age of eight I knew all our tenants by name, and by the time I was ten, I could ride rounds among the farms and oversee work myself.” 

“And when your cousin died, you lost that purpose.” 

“For a time I thought I found it in mercenary work, but it was only distraction. Violence, sex, drinking. Though Aidan managed to curb the drinking fairly early on. Mirana, I have only recently learned, curbed the sex a little by deliberatly putting me in the way of potential lovers she felt wouldn’t hurt me. Or whom I could not hurt, I suppose. She also taught me how to make sure there were no unwanted children. My mother might have done the same but it would have broken her heart to see how I threw myself into casual dalliance after dalliance, without any meaning. She’s a great romantic.” 

“And now?” he asked softly.

She looked up at him. “And now I’ve found true purpose again, and much more that I’ve never allowed myself. Deep friendships, a cause, and love in all sorts of forms.” She bit her lip hesitantly. “Cullen, I’ve never been in love before. I don’t know what it feels like or how it goes, but I do know that this means far more to me than great sex or a casual fling in the middle of a war. I don’t want to hide you like some forbidden lover or sneak you in past the guards at midnight. I won’t hide this. Is that all right with you?”

“It is far more than I feel I have any right to ask for, but yes. I’ve no more experience of love than you, I’m afraid, but this is important to me as well. I never expected to want anyone in my life in this way, but I cannot imagine it without you now.” 

“Good,” she replied. “I’m leaving for the Western Approach in two days, and tomorrow will be packed with meetings. Let’s occupy the few more hours we can steal with more engaging pursuits.”

“Oh?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

She winked. “I think I need another bath.” 

  
  



	22. Worth Remembering

Packing for the excursion had been a bit of a tangle, but with Leliana’s help they’d established a route that would take them through several advanced camps. Changes of horses, provisions, clothing, and weaponry were all taken care of. Josephine had managed to deftly grow their resources while Evelyn had been in Crestwood. 

She’d grown a little closer to the spymaster, though Leliana’s prickly barricades were still tough to get through. Now that she was through her own grief and guilt, she could see clearly what the other woman was feeling, try as she might to hide it. It was with gratified surprise that Leliana had accepted Evelyn’s offer to carry a message to the Hero of Fereldan, if she did indeed happen to see her. It was a long shot, and honestly neither of them were sure if they were hoping or fearing to see Queen Elissa among the number gathering in the Approach. But perhaps, Evelyn offered, there might be a Warden who knew how to find her since King Alistair had refused to assist. 

“He means well, you know,” Leliana told her, gazing out the tower window at the mountains. “But Elissa is his whole world. While he has grown into a fine man and a good king, it is difficult for him to hold the reigns of a kingdom alone and still try to protect her from a great distance. He will insist on it, however. No one could possibly love Elissa as he does.” 

Evelyn glanced at her. “Even you?”

“Even me,” she acknowledged. “Alistair is a romantic, which is rather tragic for him. He grew up with little in the way of affection apart from his mentor, Duncan. Elissa, I think, was the first person to show him such complete and nearly unconditional love. I don’t know that it’s easy for him to recognize love outside of romance, for all that he gives it so easily.”

Evelyn considered the peaks and the slight breeze that blew through the open pane. “You have lost many that were dear to you, in many ways, Leliana. I am sorry for it. No,” she interrupted, holding up a hand, “I know full well you don’t want my pity or even my compassion. I will say only that you have my understanding, and if there is a task I can do for you to bring any of those still alive closer to you, I will do it without question. I only want you to know that. What you choose to do with that information is up to you.” 

“Thank you, Inquisitor.” Leliana glanced at her with a sly smile. “Though speaking of romance…”

She snorted softly. “Ah, there we are.”

“There is something between the two of you, you know. Sometimes I think I can almost see it, like a bright gold cord wrapping around the both of you.” 

“Now who’s the romantic?”

Leliana laughed, and it was a pleasure to hear it. “I am well humbled, Inquisitor. But please, you must tell me. I am an Orlesian, as you know, and such things are quite important to me. He did please you, at least?”

“Orlesian or Antivan?” Evelyn laughed brightly. She hesitated a moment, but then decided that firstly, she did not want to lose this thaw with Leliana, and secondly, Cullen’s reputation would hardly be damaged. If anything, it would lift the Lion of Ferelden even higher in his troops’ esteem. “It was  _ incredible _ ,” she confessed, realizing belatedly that she had been desperate to speak of it with someone. It seemed too large, too immense an experience to simply exist between the two of them. 

Leliana’s eyes brightened and she laughed gayly. “Oh, how fantastic! I confess, I was a little concerned that he may not be up to your standards. You are young still, but I understand you have wasted very little time since your maturity. I knew another woman like you. It is fortunate you have not met or neither of you would be standing by the end of it.” 

Evelyn chortled. “If you mean that pirate Isabela, I’ve met her, and it was a rather embarrassing episode involving my cousin Jesper, a bogfisher, a ruby the size of my face, and the sort of lover-swapping that would have made the Val Royeaux theatre audience blush enough to make their masks glow.” She cleared her throat. “In my defense, we weren’t there at the same time.”

“You and your cousin or you and the bogfisher?”

“My cousin. And don’t ask about the bogfisher.” Leliana dissolved into giggles and made her promise to give her the story in its entirety some night over a bottle of wine. “It truly does not reflect on a glorious period in my life.” 

Leliana snorted. “A period of what, four, five years? Dear Evie, most young men sew far wilder oats than you. I think you can be excused a little excessive exuberance and sexual adventure.” 

Evelyn sighed. “I suppose. Oh, Maker, Leliana. I don’t want to screw this entire thing with Cullen up. I don’t know what to do. I never let myself feel anything other than physical sensation. I’ve never loved anyone with my heart as well as my body. This is different.” 

“Love is an Orlesian pastime, but for all my talk, I cannot say. I have never let anyone as close as that. I have never felt the pull to. I’ve let others close to me in different ways, of course, blurring lines between family, friends, lovers. But not all together in one person. I fear I’ve grown to love my independence more than anything else.” 

“I never realized how empty I was, before. I never thought about it. Though I suppose everyone is different in what they need.” 

“Indeed. For now, it is more than enough for me to know that your needs are well looked after. And our Commander’s.” She laughed lightly again. “Perhaps he will ease up on the recruits.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.” 

…

He met her in the stable as she checked her mount. It had annoyed Dennet at first, he knew, but the horsemaster had grown to respect how thorough and knowledgeable Evelyn was. It did help that she was fond of the Fereldan breed Dennet specialized in, of course. Cullen smiled to himself, watching the narrow beam of sunlight from the open stable door make the top of her braided hair glisten. She looked up at him at the sound of his footsteps and smiled at him. 

Maker, he wanted to pick her up in his arms and carry her back up to her quarters and lock the door behind them. He didn’t want to see her off. There would be too much time between now and her return in which he knew he would doubt it all, question himself, wonder if it had been real or an illusion. He shoved the protests to the back corner of his mind as he did all his doubts that dared show their face during the day. 

She stepped out of the stall and bit her lip. “I should tell you something.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Do I have something on my face?”

She laughed, and leaned up to kiss him quickly. “Yes, a kiss, as it happens.” 

“Does it show?”

“No.”

“Better try again, then.” 

“Incorrigible.” She grinned and kissed him far more solidly, relaxing a tension he hadn’t been aware of until that moment. “I am serious, though.”

He took her hand in his. “You can tell me anything, Evelyn.” 

She nodded, but pulled her hand away from his and tugged off her glove. It was her left hand, the one that bore the mark. It was quiet now, though he’d seen it glow luridly green and crackle with energy in the past. Only a thin and crooked line testified to its existence now. 

She stretched her palm out, making the line stand out in more detail. “We haven’t talked about this, not really. Not in terms of how it affects me. Solas thinks I’m absorbing a little of the magic. No, that’s not accurate. I’m absorbing a lot of the magic, and it’s changing me.”

He frowned. “That sounds dangerous.” 

“It is,” she confirmed, “but for now there are threats that will kill me far more quickly. He’s monitoring it, as best he can. But you should know...we should think about it...this, everything...I’m on borrowed time, Cullen. By everything we know of the world, I should have died in that explosion or the magic should have killed me shortly after. I don’t say this to dwell on it, but I want us to both understand...oh, I don’t know. This sounded better in my head. I want to cherish every moment we can steal for ourselves, but I can’t live under the illusion that this may not kill me.”

He took her hand, pressing his thumb to the mark. “It will not.” 

She sighed. “Cullen…”

“I understand, Evie. I do. I will face whatever future comes for you, but I will never do so without hope. I have lived a life where I lost that, and I will never let it go again.” He rested his brow against hers. “And if you think for one moment that I will let  _ you _ go without trying everything in my power and beyond to keep you, you are disastrously mistaken. Death may come for either or both of us sooner than we would like, but that does not mean we must submit quietly.” 

She had no answer but a kiss, and he had no more to give her but all of himself. If one could imprint the whole of one’s soul upon another through their lips, Maker knew he tried. “Never without a fight, then,” she whispered when they parted at last.

“Never without a fight,” he agreed. 

She cleared her throat and dropped her eyes. “There, ah, is one other thing. About the mark. And, um, magic.” He waited for her to continue. “Did you...a few weeks ago, when I was on the road back from Crestwood, do you...do you remember any sort of, um, vivid dream that might stand out?”

He frowned. “I don’t have the best of dreams, Evie. I try not to remember them as best I can.” 

“This one might have been worth remembering.” 

“Might?” he asked, racking his memory for anything that might have seemed out of the ordinary. Aside from his nightmares, the only thing he could possibly think of was the time or two he’d had rather lurid dreams about the woman in his arms, which he had no intention of admitting. 

“Well, I may have played a prominent role, so my self-respect would dearly like to think so.” She drew away slightly. “I...the magic of the mark, it impacts the Fade. I’ve apparently somehow been able to harness it unconsciously a few times and done this thing that Solas calls dreamwalking. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and Solas believes you somehow must have wanted me there or you’d have kept me out of your head, not that I meant to be there, or was, it’s sort of confusing…but it won’t happen again,” she added, holding up her hands defensively as he stared at her, “I promise. I know...you haven’t spoken of it, and you don’t need to, but I know that you’re not overly fond of magic and prefer to stay away from it, and...Void take it, I’m making a bit of a mess of this.” 

“Could you,” he asked slowly, “explain precisely what you mean? Am I to understand that a rather, ah, detailed dream about you was in fact a...what, a shared dream? You were...there, somehow?”

She bit her lip and squinted slightly. “I...yes?” her tone climbed high in contriteness.

He blinked, and then swallowed, and then blinked again, trying to process the information. He could, in fact, remember that dream quite vividly. Until that morning two days ago when he’d first made love to her, it had been his most cherished and indulgent fantasy. He cleared his throat. “Well.” 

“I promise, it will not happen again. I never meant for something so invasive to happen, and I know it is inexcusable, but I swear it will not happen again. I’ve been practicing mental defenses with Solas and Dorian, and it’s under control.”

He rubbed his chin, and noted with some surprise that he was not at all angry. Should he have been? Perhaps with someone else, but the depth of his trust in Evelyn was astonishing, even to him. Even if that dream hadn’t been pleasant, if he’d somehow pulled her into one of his nightmares, he didn’t think he’d be angry. Horrified, perhaps, that she had witnessed that darkness he’d struggled through, but not angry. “How long,” he asked her in a low voice, glancing around to ensure they were alone in this part of the stables, “have you thought about me like that?”

Her eyes widened slightly, and he dropped his gaze to her lips when she licked them. Ever so slowly, he shifted and advanced upon her until her back was against the stable wall. “Hardly fair,” she protested, but her voice was thin and she swallowed with a little difficulty. “It was your dream after all, I was just pulled into it.”

“If it’s the dream I’m remembering, you were hardly a passive partner.” 

“Passivity isn’t really my thing,” she agreed, tilting her head up as he set his arm on the wall above her head and leaned down. “I should ask you how long you’ve wanted to kiss me.” 

“Kiss you?” he murmured, lips against her hairline. “Since you jumped on the back of a Pride demon and stabbed it to death. I shook it off as battle lust and ignored it, but one day after Redcliffe I heard you laughing with Dorian. And then, all I wanted in the world was to knock him out, throw you over my shoulder, and haul you back to my cabin like some conquering Avvar thane out of an Orlesian twopenny novel. I don’t know why it was then that my self-delusion fell away, but that was the moment I knew I could no longer deny how I felt about you.” 

She sighed softly, the breath tickling his cheek. “The marsh,” she told him. “The rain had broken and it was warm. You were sparring with Captain Rylen. I had noticed you before, of course, but told myself it was only respect of an equal - even superior - fighter. But you were shirtless, and in the sunshine. It began to rain, and you tilted your head up and I remember the look of pure enjoyment on your face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight.”

“Ever? I’ll have to work on that.” He tilted his head. “You were watching us spar then?”

“From my tent.” 

“Your tent was closed. I was going to ask you to spar next, if you’d recovered. I remember thinking you must not be.” 

“Oh, I was. I was just occupied.” She lifted her mouth and nipped playfully at his chin. “With myself. And some very inappropriate fantasies into which your face kept intruding. It was difficult to face you later without blushing to my roots, considering a certain pair of eyes were the last thing I remember before I-” 

His fragile sense of control snapped and he kissed her hard. She leaned into it, her arms locking around his neck. He lifted her up against the stable wall and grunted as she arched her back and pressed her heat against his thigh. He ground his hips into her almost reflexively, but they were both dressed in several layers against the cold and she was trussed up for travel. He found himself laughing against her skin as she swore roundly. He kissed her again, but more softly, lingering in the sweet wetness of her mouth. 

Maker’s breath, she made him feel whole and complete in a way he’d never known was possible. He set her down reluctantly, covering her face in soft, gentle kisses. “Leliana lent me a raven,” she whispered. “It’s trained to fly directly to your tower. Write to me? Not just reports, please.” 

“Varric’s the romance novelist, not me.” 

She laughed. “Just...anything. Odd things Cole tells you or pranks Sera’s pulled or anecdotes about recruits. I don’t care. Anything.” 

He hummed and pulled her close, nesting her head under his chin. “Of course. You’ll be bored to tears, but of course. As long as you write back.” 

“Always.” She buried her face into his quilted gambeson, which he’d yet to cover with his formal breastplate. He planned to stand with the honor guard to see her off. “I feel like such a goose,” she said thickly. “You’d better let me go before I start crying like a lovesick maiden.” 

Cullen laughed. “Perish the thought. Get your advance team together, I’ll make sure your saddle bags are packed.” 

She nodded and he watched her walk away with a heart that was both heavy and buoyant at the same time. Once she was out of the stables, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter he’d written only that morning, after Leliana had told him of Evelyn’s request for a raven. He smiled to himself as he tucked it into her saddlebag, ensuring it was close enough to the surface that she’d see it that night or the next. 

An hour later, he stood atop the gatehouse with the honor guard and the addition of Evelyn’s family, save for her eldest cousin who traveled with the party. “Doesn’t seem right,” Aidan Trevelyan murmured to his wife, “letting her go off like that without all of us.” 

“They’ll travel faster, and Vess is with them. She’s handier in a fight with demons than you are, vhenan,” his wife told him, though Cullen thought her tone was a little too steady to not be practiced. “Besides, Evelyn needs us here with her Commander. We’re valuable to the Inquisition’s forces. It’s not just Evie herself that needs looking after now.” 

“Mum’s right,” Jesper Trevelyan spoke up. “Besides, Evie’s a force of nature.” 

“Like an earthquake,” agreed Owen. The spirit healer cousin, Cullen recalled, and Evelyn’s brother in all but blood. “Or a hurricane.” 

Cullen laughed lightly. “I told her she was a storm. I’m always surprised she  _ isn’t _ a mage.” 

Owen tilted his head curiously. “What makes you say that, Commander? Instinct or Templar training?” 

Cullen considered the mage before replying, but the question hadn’t been barbed as he’d expected. Instead the lad looked openly curious. “It’s difficult to say,” he answered honestly. “There’s an intensity to her that I’m not used to seeing outside of mages. Or,” he added thoughtfully, “Seekers, I suppose. It’s not something I’d say I’d be able to sense with any Templar training, only experience. I don’t think it’s the mark, either. I think it’s her.” 

Owen considered his answer with equal thoughtfulness. In a way, his manner reminded Cullen strongly of Solas. No wonder the enigmatic elf and Evelyn had become such fast friends. And Aidan Trevelyan was strongly reminiscent of Varric and Hawke both. He had to smile at the thought. “She’s always been like that,” Mirana spoke. “I remember when she was born and we gathered for her Naming and dedication. She had these eyes that seemed to see right through you. So curious as a child, always full of energy. It withdrew into herself for a while, but it’s good to see it again.”

“She changes everything she touches.” Cullen turned to see Cole standing where he hadn’t been a moment before. He prevented himself from reacting just in time, though the others jumped a little, except for Owen. 

The mage smiled at Cole and nodded. “That she does.” 

“You help with healing, halving the hurting, but you have to push it out, call it. She doesn’t. It just happens. People are better around her, lighter, laughing, living.” The odd boy turned to Owen. “How does she do it? Does she know?” 

“She never has seen it in herself,” Aidan answered instead. “Some people are just like that. The rest of us are pulled along in the currents of fate, but a handful of people are ships upon that water, able to set their own direction by sheer force of will. That’s why you made her your leader.” 

Cullen nodded, amused at himself that he could even follow this conversation where even two or three years ago he would’ve been tense, hand on his sword hilt, readying his reserves of lyrium. “It’s a heavy burden,” he said instead of smiting anyone, “but there was no one else who could have shouldered it like she’s able to.” 

“It’s hard to hear her,” Cole confessed. “She’s so bright. The magic sings in a lost and mournful song, but there’s so much around her. So many eyes see her and see different things and it all gets muddled.” He turned to Cullen, pale eyes wide. “I’ve not been able to help her because I can’t hear her. But you can. You lifted it, made it lighter. She can breathe now. She can fly, you lift her high enough. And she made you real. Fresh air. A rope to pull you to safety.” 

Owen smothered a laugh with a cough and turned away from them while Cullen again cursed his complexion. “Yes, well, it’s my duty as Commander -”

Cole peered at him. “I don’t think you saw it as duty, did you? You said she was perfect, skin glowing like opal in the morning light, soft and pliant and-”

He’d never wanted to get close to the spirit creature, yet Cole had somehow managed to worm himself into nearly everyone’s daily life. Cullen found himself rarely thinking of him as a spirit who could turn against them at any moment; most of the time, he seemed a guileless teenage boy who couldn’t mind his tongue. 

A guileless teenage boy who could somehow hear people’s thoughts on occasion, but no demon or abomination. He’d gotten used to Cole’’s presence surprisingly quickly, but there were times he could cheerfully throttle him and send him packing through the nearest rift. This was one of them.

Cullen stepped forward and clamped a hand over Cole’s mouth. “Thank you, yes, Cole. That is perhaps not the thing to blurt out among her family and my soldiers,  _ if you please _ ,” he hissed. The boy nodded and he dropped his hand. 

“Will that make it into your next letter? It will make her laugh.” 

“Andraste preserve me,” Cullen whispered, running a hand over his face.

Aidan and Mirana mercifully pretended to have noticed nothing, but their son’s eyes were dancing with mirth. Jesper clapped Cullen on the shoulder. “Come on, man, let’s get in the ring for a bout or two and get your mind off it, eh?”

…

  
  


They made good progress through the Frostbacks and were in the foothills by the time they needed to break and make camp. Evelyn was glad of the chance for solitude. Varric and Cassandra were getting along far better, having gotten whatever bitterness still lingered over Hawke out of their system. The dwarf was not looking forward to the effect of the harsh desert sun on his delicate dwarven skin, as he let them know repeatedly. Cassandra politely offered to dunk him in a barrel of protective tar, and he mercifully let it go. 

It was Vess and Solas who most concerned her now. For a while the two seemed to be getting along well enough. Solas seemed pleased with her fluency in Elvhen and knowledge of ancient poetry, which they discussed at some length. But the last few hours after they’d stopped to rest their mounts had been tense, and they kept some distance from each other. 

Evelyn sighed to herself. It had been a risk to bring Vess, but there were several Dalish clans that tended to travel the Exalted Plains, even in the midst of civil war. She was good at negotiating passage and trade with them, and Solas would have set their backs up instantly. It was also a risk bringing him along, as she knew his opinion of Grey Wardens. 

That was precisely why she wanted him along, though. He wouldn’t be swayed by any old tales of heroism or harbor any soft spots. She needed his objectivity, and Cassandra’s, and Varric’s. Even after all this time traveling with others, they were still the three it felt most natural fighting alongside, for they had been with her from the very beginning. 

She’d looked forward to a more easy and familiar camaraderie, though Vess did blow that plan a bit off course. Four years her senior, Vessana Trevelyan was still sort of a mystery to Evelyn. She’d not been around the Hunters often, pursuing her own education in magic instead. An apostate, of course, but it had never felt that way as a youth. For all her human looks, Vess had always seemed more elven than even her mother at times; fluid and graceful and with a weight of wisdom and mystery that was far beyond her years.

Vess bounced from clan to clan working with different Keepers, never staying too long when the clans traveled within easy distance of human settlements, refusing to endanger them. Lavellan was the first clan she’d stayed with for any amount of time. It seemed like a slapdash education, but Vess was a finely controlled and powerful mage. She’d walked the line between human and elf for so long, learning to navigate both worlds with equal skill out of necessity, but it took its toll. 

And Solas  _ could _ be unexpectedly prickly at times towards humans and other elves that somehow failed his measure of what it meant to be Elvhen, not just elven. 

If she were completely honest with herself, Evelyn had hoped that maybe Vess’s quiet charm and peaceful nature could pull out some of Solas’s past. He held onto it so tightly, and there was a deep chasm of pain there. She would never go so far as to pry or snoop, but she wished he would let more people through the tightly constructed walls around himself. He’d let her in a little, but only a very short distance, for all their friendship and kindred minds. 

Ah, well. She couldn’t force anything from anyone, and wouldn’t try to regardless. Except good behavior, for she would not tolerate tension between her comrades like in Crestwood. That had been quite enough of that. 

Evelyn retreated to her tent and let her friends set up the campfire and start dinner. Varric was a far better cook than the rest of them, so he’d been tasked with dinner. He grumbled, but she knew he secretly loved the praise for his food. 

Divesting herself of several outer layers, she stretched and began rummaging through her pack for the small volume of notable landmarks on their route she’d wanted to review. Her fingers brushed against parchment, and she frowned. Her writing supplies were in her other bag. She pulled out a letter, sealed with wax but no Inquisition seal pressed into it. Something small and cylindrical and smooth had been pressed into it instead. She cracked the wax and opened the letter, a grin spreading across her face as she recognized the neat hand from so very many reports. 

_ My Evie, _

_ Forgive the lack of seal. This is hardly official business, and I lack a signet of my own so I’ve recruited one of the chess pieces to serve for the moment. Leliana happened to mention to me this morning that you asked for a raven for private missives. I suppose I might assume too much, as you have family here you undoubtedly wish to write to. In the interest of being the brave soul you see in me, I have decided to risk embarrassment and write to you first. _

_ This will not be the first time I have watched you ride away and felt the emptiness in your absence, but it is perhaps keener. Yet it is not all bitter, there is sweet. I cannot help the feeling of pride and wonder, the knowledge that wherever you go, you will leave the world changed behind you. I may be your lover now, though it seems still so unreal and marvelous as to be true, but I am also your Commander and I am more grateful and proud than I can put into words to serve the Inquisition under your leadership.  _

_ Do not doubt yourself, Evelyn. I never have doubted you.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Cullen _

How could he have known the very words she’d most needed when she had not known herself? She folded the parchment up and pressed it to her heart, closing her eyes for a moment until her breathing steadied. 

Laughter came from outside, accompanying Varric’s voice as he told an outrageous tale of Hawke’s exploits. The cheerful smell of a crackling campfire reached her nose, as did the appetizing sizzle of onion and garlic in oil. How Varric knew the tricks to making a boring lentil pottage delicious was beyond the rest of them, but he was a veritable wizard with it. He claimed it came from years of avoiding eating the food at the Hanged Man in Kirkwall. 

Perhaps after dinner, she could convince Vess to sing for them. Evelyn smiled to herself and tucked Cullen’s letter not into her bag as she should have, but under her pillow instead. If she was behaving like an absolute goose, then at least there was no one sharing her tent tonight to witness it. 

...

In the weeks following Evelyn’s departure for the Western Approach, Cullen found himself indebted to her family. They seemingly rallied around him to provide distraction without ever giving the impression of having intended to do so - which was naturally precisely what gave them away. 

He found himself wondering often just what her parents were like. He’d never particularly had a high opinion of noble families as a child and his time in Kirkwall had only reinforced that distaste. But - apart from the Teyrn, he gathered - the Trevelyans seemed different. He knew little of the Bann apart from what his disinherited brother told in stories and what Evelyn had told him herself. The man seemed the honorable sort, and of course there was Evelyn to prove it. 

He leaned against the training ring and gulped down water, his linen shirt sticking to his back with sweat. It would cool off soon enough in the chill air. He glanced over at Mirana, who was stretching gingerly and catching her breath. For once, he’d managed to get the upper hand in combat with her, which he was enormously proud about. She fought harder than Cassandra and was faster than Evelyn. He wondered if humans truly appreciated the strength and speed that was hidden in the wiry elven form. 

He’d sparred with Solas on occasion, but even then had the sense the mage was holding back. It would be fascinating to watch him spar with Mirana, where they were evenly matched for grace and speed. Solas had demonstrated his quick ability to adjust and learn several different fighting techniques, and certainly favored the quarterstaff. Cullen was curious how it would defend against the sort of double-bladed whirlwind Evelyn and Mirana used. Not that they were likely to face that in combat, but the soldier in him couldn’t help but be curious. 

“Nice work, lad,” Aidan told him, eyeing his tired wife with amusement. “Not many can keep pace with her when she has an annoyance to work out.” 

“Is it possible for traits to run in families even if there are no direct blood ties?” Cullen wondered. “It wouldn’t be the first time a Trevelyan’s tried to take me out at the knees to work out her own stress. I suppose should the war end and we become victorious tomorrow, I could always offer myself to your family for employment as a sparring dummy.” 

Aidan laughed loudly and in an achingly familiar way. Maker, he hadn’t known it was possible to miss a person so. “I think Evie has better uses for you.” 

Cullen coughed on the water he swallowed, which only made Aidan laugh harder. “I, ah, that is…”

“Never mind, lad. My niece will do as she wills. I’ve never pretended to have any control over her. Only her father does, and he cares only for her happiness, whatever form that comes in.” Aidan eyed him for a moment. “He was a Templar, too, you know.” 

Cullen blinked. “Who?”

“William. Evelyn’s father. Ah, it’s not really my story to tell, but I think you’d find a lot in common with my brother.” 

“She’s never mentioned it.” Odd that Evelyn would talk about her cousins in the Order but not her own father. 

Aidan shrugged slightly. “I doubt even she knows the whole story. That’s for Will and Elinor to tell. But the gist of what is more widely known is that he left his training in order to marry Elinor Sudbury, against the wishes of his family. Her kin were prosperous but not titled, and our mother thought he should look higher. But he loved her, married her, and bought Annreth outright with her dowry when our elder brother would have sold off the failing estate. He turned it around, grew wealthy, and they had Evie. Mother threatened disownment, of course, but he had enough money to ignore her, unlike me.” He laughed. “Damn them all anyway. Will and I came out of it wealthier than Alric could ever hope to be, for all the gold in Ostwick’s coffers. And poor Oswin might have married well, but he spends all his time with his whores and his illegal still.” 

“Sounds like Evelyn and your own children are the fortunate ones in their parentage.” 

“Jesper and Vess might agree with you on a good day, aye. Feels wretched to say so of my own older brother when he’s lost all his children save one, and that one is the son he turned away. Even before Owen showed signs of magic, he blamed the boy for his wife’s death. She took ill sudden like, and passed away rapidly in the night. The healer was able to cut the boy out of her and he survived, but Alric was never really right after that. With the others off at their schooling, Will and Elinor took the boy and raised him alongside Evie until Alric got over it.” 

“Did he?”

“No, he never did. I don’t know that he ever has, still. Either that wife of his he has now is barren or he’s never touched her. Seems odd for such a prolific father to suddenly stop having children. He wasn’t a bad father, either. His children loved him before Nyra passed. Everything was different after that.” 

Aidan rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I can’t fathom it, can you? Mirana is my world, my soul. I love her with every single fiber of my being, but if the unthinkable happened like that...I cannot help but think how it would be a saving grace, a mercy handed down from Andraste herself, to still have another small piece of her left to me in a child. To say nothing of my own flesh and blood. I could not turn away from my own kin like that.” Cullen caught his sideways look. “So you should understand why I could not give up my Vess to the Circle.”

Cullen winced. “You were not wrong to do so. I might have answered differently even a year ago, but circumstances have proved that what we had was not the answer. I do not want to see southern Thedas become another Imperium where magic is abused to wield power over those without, but neither do I want the repression of the old system. It was easy to justify every outbreak of violence as a fluke rather than a symptom of a greater disease. We certainly did in Kirkwall, but we were wrong.”

“Aye,” Aidan agreed, “that was a right mess.” 

“I still think on what I could have, should have, done to push back against my Knight-Commander and the Order, but at the time I trusted them completely. We were trained for obedience and nothing but. It cannot be that way again. Mages should be protected and allowed safe places to learn their craft, and Templars can play an important role in that. But Circles or anything like them should be places of learning and freedom within the laws of magic, not cages.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, you certainly don’t need a lecture from me.” 

“I see why she likes you, lad. You’ve a mind beneath that mane of golden curls. You know the ladies sigh over you and call you the ‘Lion of Ferelden’?”

Cullen groaned. “Please don’t repeat that title. Lions are Orlesian.” 

Aidan laughed long and hard, wiping his eyes on the hem of his loose black shirt. “Aye, lad, so they are.” 

They were momentarily distracted by a clattering sound that came from Mirana and the practice weapons rack, followed by what Cullen could only assume was an astonishing amount of swearing in Elvhen. Aidan groaned. “Maker grant me strength, this will take all day to untangle. A husband’s work is never finished. Nor a father’s.” 

Cullen blinked. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, it’s fine. A simple letter from our Vess. She’s not overly fond of your apostate elf she’s traveling with, and Mirana’s convinced it’s because the girl likes him. Honestly, he seems like a decent sort and all, but Vess is no simpering fool. I’m not concerned, but my wife frets. She barely let Vessana study with the Dalish; she certainly doesn’t want her daughter taking up with an elf. Childhood  _ will  _ leave its scars.” He clapped Cullen on the shoulder and departed, picking up his wife and slinging her over his shoulder as he did so. Mirana offered token resistance at first, then gave in to her husband with laughter. 

Cullen watched them go with a smile, picturing with some amusement precisely what Evelyn would do to him if he tried such a stunt with her. Not that he hadn’t thought about it in excruciating detail a time or two, as he’d confessed to her. 

He chewed his lower lip in thought. She had seemed surprisingly aroused when he took a bit of control in the stable before she left. That might be interesting to explore. He’d have to talk to her about it. Both of them gave orders all day, after all. It might be nice to trade off taking control with each other in the bedroom.

And he was going to spend the rest of the day in a mortifyingly obvious state of arousal if he didn’t get his thoughts under control. While that might be preferable in many respects to the pain of lyrium withdrawal, it was not really conducive to the rest of his business. He laughed lightly at himself and picked up his cloak. 

He resolutely put his feelings and urges out of his mind until he thumbed through his correspondence for the evening. A letter sealed in wax sat at the edge of his desk as a reward for getting through the last bits of work he needed to finish. Once he could finally replace his quill in the inkstand and lean back in his chair, he took the letter between his fingers and smiled. 

It was not sealed with the official Inquisition seal, or even House Trevelyan’s. Instead, it was Evelyn’s personal seal: a sheaf of wheat and a hop flower. Her father’s estate had become rich with its breweries, as he understood. He unfolded the paper and read it with a warm smile. It had arrived the previous morning, but he liked to draw out the time between reading the letters, as they could write only infrequently when access to the regular mail packet could be assured. Leliana’s fond indulgence had a limit to it, after all, and she had wanted her ravens back.

Besides, even as infrequent as it could be, he preferred writing a full size proper letter to her rather than scrawling hasty notes in tiny script to send by raven. At that thought, he glanced with no small amount of guilt to the other letter that awaited his reply from Mia. He would answer her soon, he promised himself again, when he knew what to say. It was easier to write to Evelyn, somehow, than his own family. 

He could still scarcely believe the line they’d crossed over, and that they’d done so together without even a second thought. How long they’d both wanted it but been afraid to acknowledge it, to break their easy camaraderie by trying something far more difficult and fragile. 

It felt equally strange to have made love to someone he’d literally dreamed of bedding. He’d become accustomed to thinking of it only as the deepest, most secret fantasy of his heart by the time he kissed her in his office. He still, in his mind, thought of it as unattainable even as she’d slid naked into the bathtub with him. 

The way she’d watched him as he tenderly washed her skin, her face absolutely naked and vulnerable in its intense emotion...that had finally brought home to him how real it was. How true it was that his own passion for her was matched by an equal desire for him, mad as it might seem. The feeling of her damp hair under his chin, the arc of her body as she joined them together and threw her head back in pleasure, the raw and low keening of her climax followed by his own moments later...Maker’s  _ breath _ , it had been more transcendent than any prayer. 

He’d never expected that sex could be so achingly beautiful and almost sacred in its intensity while also being the single most erotic experience of his life. He’d brought a woman to orgasm before - he did like to be thorough in everything he did. But he’d never been with a woman who could come like that without extra external stimulation. Granted, his experience was rather limited, but it had been an incredible experience to feel her shudder and tighten around him. 

Cullen ignored his impatient, half-hard cock and opened her letter. They were rarely outrightly salacious, though he did not doubt from her words that she ached as much for him as he did for her. There was so much passion in her, but it wasn’t only physical. Her keen intelligence and sharp eye made her letters sing, and he found as much enjoyment from her description of a town they passed through as he did from any words of affection she wrote to him. 

He found himself folding up the letter and bringing it up to the loft to tuck into his bedside table drawer. He could have returned to his often ignored rooms in the central keep, but he preferred the cold and the silence of his tower. On a clear night he had only to look up through that hole that he honestly was never going to patch until he had to, and he could see the stars. It made him feel as though he could breathe freely and truly believe he was no longer trapped alone in the dark. 

Would she understand? If he told her? She knew that fear. He wondered if that was the reason her quarters had so many windows and she’d refused a curtained bed. 

But there were other things about his time in Kinloch Hold that he didn’t want to tell her, or anyone, even himself. Things he wished he could forget the sight of. 

He sighed, and reached back into the drawer to pull out one of the letters at random. He held it to his chest and breathed deeply. Her soap that she used while traveling still clung to the parchment and he found the combination of the smell and the thought of her words sometimes helped ease the nightmares. It never fully chased them away, but they were less clear with the scent of lavender in his nose and the feel of parchment under his fingers. 

…

  
  


“We should head back, Stabs,” Varric told her. He rubbed absently at a non-existent scuff on Bianca. His face was still a little red, but no longer the alarming shade it had been when they first arrived in the Approach. Solas’s healing and a tin of Scout Harding’s mother’s cousin’s famous skin balm had done wonders to protect dwarven skin that, it turned out, was rather delicate. 

He’d been in such misery not even Cassandra had picked at him over it. She’d even offered to help with the balm until Varric stared hard enough at her that she turned beet red herself and took off in a huff. “You should have taken her up on the offer,” Solas told him dryly over the rim of his cup. Vessana had made them all some sort of drink with warm, spiced milk and honey to combat the desert night chill, and Solas was fond of it. “The Seeker has a soothing touch. There is no need for embarrassment among comrades in arms, after all, is there?”

Vess had to hide her chortle in a spoonful of soup, but Evelyn only grinned. Solas’s penchant for subtle mischief was delightful when it wasn’t directed at her. He was the only one among them who could really match Varric word for word and unsettle the dwarf as easily as he unsettled the rest of them. Varric had only met Solas’s faux-innocent look with another hard stare and held up a finger. “Don’t start with me, Chuckles.”

In the early, diffuse light before dawn, Varric sat beside her now on a boulder across from a Chantry trail marker that Evelyn had been staring at. “Back?” she asked.

“To Skyhold.” He sighed. “Maferath’s balls. I was kidding when I told you to find Curly a war. Adamant fucking Fortress. The Grey damn Wardens. Shit.”

“Yeah,” she agreed absently, still staring at the trail marker. “What are they hiding?” she wondered.

Varric looked up at her. “Who? The Wardens? A whole bucketload of stupid and crazy, looks like.” 

“No,” she told him, pointing to the trail marker. “The Chantry. What were they hiding all the way out here?”

He followed her gaze and sighed again. “Whatever it is, we’re going to find it and it’s not going to be good, is it?”

“Yes,” she agreed, “and no. Get the others. Tell them to leave the camp set up. I sent my report ahead of us and Hawke’s left already. An extra day won’t be a setback. I want to know what the Chantry was up to.” 

It took them the better part of the day, but at last they reached the end of the trail. As Evelyn stood in the entrance of the cave fighting to control her temper, Vess read the last of the notes that had been left in there and swore softly. “They were trying to reverse Tranquility.” 

Evelyn found she couldn’t even speak through her fury.

“Is that even possible?” Varric wondered. “I don’t know much about it, obviously. Dwarves don’t have a connection to the Fade to sever. I heard someone say once that it was like a dwarf losing their Stone sense, but I’ve never had that, either.” 

Vess grunted. “Imagine all your creativity gone; all those characters swimming around your mind? Gone. All the color in the world, leeched out of it. All the taste and pleasure. Hatred and anger, too, but all of that balances rationality. Without it as counterweight, people simply become numb. Some kind hyper-focus and still function, but they must be reminded to eat, to sleep, to bathe. They want nothing for themselves, they only  _ do _ .”

Solas took the journal from Vess and looked at it sadly. “It is possible, I think, based on what they described here. Whether they were successful or not, we cannot know.”

“It would be difficult,” Vess mused, “to hold onto your control if your magic suddenly came flooding back like that, even without your emotions packed away as well. But after years of that state, I can’t begin to fathom how a mage wouldn’t go mad suddenly feeling everything that’s been done to them while having the power to do something about it.” She looked around. “I don’t sense any echoes on the Veil, however. Either they were successful in all aspects and the mage kept control, or they were not able to restore that mage at all.”

“Hmm,” Solas agreed, “indeed.”

The only other silent person besides Evelyn was Cassandra, who looked stone-faced and impassive as she did when hiding any great emotion. Evelyn turned and walked out of the cave, and could hear the Seeker’s footsteps behind her. 

“Did you know?” Evelyn asked in a low voice when she could trust herself to speak. “Tell me you didn’t know, Cassandra. Lie to me if you have to.”

The Seeker let out a breath, and her mask slipped a little. “No. I did not know. And that is not a lie.” 

Evelyn turned to look at her. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Cassandra flexed her swordhand and then returned it to her hilt. “I knew of rumors about it. I even questioned Justinia, but if it was possible, she had no knowledge of it, nor Leliana. It was the rumor of possibility and the idea that the Chantry was covering it up that was the catalyst for the mages’ vote.”

Evelyn nodded her understanding, and inhaled slowly to contain and release her anger. “From the date on the journal,” she mused, calming herself, “it’s impossible to say whether this was what began the rumor or whether this was simply a group trying to see if it was true. It doesn’t seem to have been successful, at any rate. Or, of course, it was hidden if it was.” 

Cassandra looked back at the cave entrance. “We have more pressing issues at the moment, but if we could find any of the other Seekers, that may help us know the truth, should you want to investigate. Some of the others also served under Lord Seeker Lambert, and he was the one accused most of covering it up. For what it’s worth, I think we should look into it at some point. We will never truly move past this point with mages and the Order and onto something better unless we know the truth of what happened.” 

“I agree completely,” Evelyn told her. “But you are correct: first we deal with the demon army. Come on, then,” she called to the others, “let’s go home.” 

  
  



	23. Never Without a Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions!
> 
> But then smut.

It was not the homecoming Evelyn had hoped for, but all thought of herself and any annoyance on her part of having to track him down fled the moment she opened the armory door. When he brushed past her, pale and haunted, with only a whispered  _ Forgive me _ , she found it difficult to even breathe, let alone find any room for anything other than cold fear. 

He’d been speaking to Cassandra, arguing. A terrible suspicion settled like a stone in her stomach. “Cassandra.” 

The Seeker looked up and her expression softened. “It’s not as bad as he thinks,” she said quickly, and Evelyn relaxed a little. “I told him to trust me, that I would not let sentiment cloud my judgement, but sometimes it’s difficult for him to see that. It is himself he argues with, not me.” 

Evelyn ran a hand through her hair, knocking loose her braid. “He wants a replacement found.” 

“He does,” Cassandra confirmed, “but I do not think it necessary.” 

Her mind struggled to catch up to her racing heart. “Why didn’t he come to me? It’s ultimately my decision. I agreed to defer to your judgement of course, but he should have told me.” 

Cassandra hesitated. “He doesn’t want to disappoint you. Even before you and he...well, that is none of my business of course. But he cares what you think of him, apart from that.” 

She pressed her lips together and fought to control her breathing. “What I think? I think I’m going to throttle him. I can’t lose him now.” She held up a hand to forestall Cassandra. “As Commander, I mean. Whatever else he is to me is irrelevant to that concern. I will not march on Adamant Fortress without Cullen leading my army.” 

“Then tell him that,” Cassandra pleaded softly. “He will listen to you.” She sighed. “He’s stronger than he thinks. Lyrium is a terrible burden on a Templar, but if anyone can break that leash, it’s Cullen. I knew that when he first told me he wanted to stop taking it. It’s why I recruited him, that strength.” 

Evelyn was already halfway to the door before Cassandra finished. “Thank you,” she tossed over her shoulder to the Seeker, who nodded gratefully at her. 

It was cold and drizzling, but she’d left her cloak in his office in her eagerness to find him, to be with him. She couldn’t even think on that now. Physical need had entirely fled her mind, and her only thought was to get to him before he did anything stupid. Cassandra wasn’t as concerned, but Evelyn couldn’t shake that cold sensation that crept in after seeing his face. She would not lose him to this darkness. 

The crash of wood and glass was thankfully a few feet from her head when she entered his office. She stared at the debris that remained of his lyrium box for a long moment, then finished entering and slowly closed the door behind her, locking it firmly. “Cullen.” 

She met his eyes at last, and they were wide and almost frantic. She’d seen him in pain, but never like this. He panted slightly and leaned forward on his desk, head bowed. “Forgive me, I didn’t see you.”

“Cullen.” 

“I cannot do this. I thought I could. I thought I could fight through it like I fight through everything. But I can’t.” He jerked upright and turned to the window, but she made no move to cross the distance to him. He needed to speak, and if she crowded him he would back away from her, she could feel it. There was a tenseness in his muscles, like a cornered animal. 

“Tell me,” she said softly.

“You have enough burdens.”

“I wasn’t asking. Tell me what they did to you.” It was a risk, but she had to push, and push now. “No more running. No more hiding. Tell me.” He might never look at her again without loathing for this, but she had to lance this wound before it festered further within him. 

Cullen stood so still, so silently that for a long moment she thought she’d miscalculated and lost him completely. It hurt desperately to think so, but she waited anyway. Waited for him to yell or throw something else or give in to defeat, or simply move. He had to move at some point, but she would not move until he did.

“I was the only survivor,” he said at last, and she couldn’t help the small, sharp intake of breath. He didn’t seem to hear it, his tone flat and emotionless. Some sight out or beyond the window held him and he did not turn to face her. “Kinloch Hold fell to blood mages during the chaos of the Blight. I’d joined the Order to protect people, but I couldn’t protect those I cared about from being torn apart by demons and abominations, or bled dry for dark, unspeakable magic.”

Evelyn winced. She’d seen what demons could do to a human body. The memory of her friends tossed around Redcliffe, bleeding and dismembered...that wasn’t something one could forget easily. 

“I couldn’t even protect the mages under my charge. Those that refused to rebel were slaughtered. Uldred found the sight of me holding one of them in grief funny, so he kept me alive to torture me with it.”

She closed her eyes against the horror of it. “What was her name?” she asked softly, knowing instinctively that it had been a woman, and a woman he’d loved. 

“Solona,” he answered. “Solona Amell. She was brilliant with magic. I loved watching her work. I knew, of course, that Templars were not to fraternize with mages, and I would never cross the line with anyone under my care. But knowing rules has never really done much to stop what people feel, has it? She approached me once, after her Harrowing. I turned her down, like a coward, and that was the last thing we’d said to each other before her throat was cut by her former friend. Uldred found me covered in her blood, trying to save her when she was already long gone. He kept her body around, outside the prison he locked me in. Sometimes they kept an illusion spell up so she seemed to be bleeding and I couldn’t get to her. Other times they let it drop so I could see the decay. They tried to send in Desire demons wearing her face, but they could never get it right, not that spark of joy she held, that love of magic that was in everything they did. And they perverted that joy.” 

Evleyn pressed her fingers to her mouth and breathed past the tightness in her throat. She knew there was pain in his past, but she could never have fathomed such cruelty even in her darkest thoughts. 

“There were other things, more standard forms of torture, I suppose. Pain, sleep deprivation, starvation, denying water and lyrium.” He laughed softly and harsly. “Surprisingly, that’s why I thought I could handle giving it up, the lyrium.” Still he did not turn around to face her. “It was the Hero of Ferelden who saved me, can you believe? Queen Elissa herself, and the soon to be King Alistair as well. I could not control my anger afterward. I lashed out at everything and everyone, and mages most of all. And what did the Order do with this scarred, broken shell of a man? They sent me to  _ Kirkwall _ . Kirkwall, where a strict Knight-Commander could harness my pain and turn me into a weapon that suited her own agenda.”

He turned to face her at last. “I wasn’t the weapon she wanted, but it took me a long time to see through her, still. I am not proud of the man I was then. Can you not see why I wanted to leave all of it behind me? The Order, that life?”

Wordlessly, she nodded. 

“But I swore to serve the Inquisition, and this - and you - have proved to be worthy of everything I can give. What am I giving, Evie? Less than I gave the Chantry, who used me, and told me to hide my memories in lyrium. To serve and not question, and be a good little boy about it. I will not, I should not...I cannot give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I should be taking lyrium and worrying about giving it up later. I should take it. I should have been taking it the whole time. I should be taking it!”

He had grown increasingly agitated as he spoke, pacing like a prowling panther behind his desk, punctuating the last statement with a fist slammed into his bookshelf. Books tumbled to the floor at his feet, but he only stood there, staring at the floor and letting his fist rest on the wooden shelf. “I should be taking it.” 

“No,” she said softly, and he looked up, his expression so broken, so vulnerable that it tore her heart in half. She did cross the distance then, at last, and stopped in front of him with a hand on his chest. Even through the thick cotton tunic, she could sense his rapid heartbeat. “You are giving the Inquisition far more than you ever gave the Chantry. Listen to me,” she continued when he would have interrupted, “I’m speaking now as your leader, as Inquisitor, not as your Evelyn, not as your lover. Do you hear me? You are  _ not _ giving me blind obedience, or blind faith. You give me the wholeness of your mind, your brilliance. You give me your thoughts, you stand up and argue with me when you think I’m wrong. If I gave you an order you knew in your heart was mistaken, you would fight me tooth and nail on it. You cannot even fathom what a gift that is to me, how much this power I can wield as Inquisitor  _ terrifies _ me. Cullen, you are able to be what I need in my Commander  _ because _ you are not taking lyrium.”

His jaw worked as her words settled in, but he did not speak yet. She removed her hand from his chest and then cupped his face in both her palms. “Now I speak to you as Evelyn, as your lover and friend. This isn’t only about the Inquisition, Cullen. Is this what  _ you  _ want? To take lyrium again?”

He exhaled and closed his eyes, and in the corner of her vision, she could see his fist relax. As his fingers grew slack, so did the bands of terror around her heart. “No,” he admitted at last. 

She kept her hands on his face until he opened his eyes and looked at her, seeing her in full at last. “But these thoughts, these doubts...what if I can’t…”

“You can,” she told him. “Cullen, you can.” Softly, she caressed his cheeks with her thumbs. “Never without a fight, remember?”

The ghost of a smile flickered wearily over his face. “Never without a fight,” he agreed. 

He let her guide him gently up the ladder and into his bed. She pulled off his boots and threw them in a corner, along with with his vambraces and belt. When she would have left him to sleep, he reached out to her with eyes closed. “Stay?”

It cost him to ask it of her, she could feel it. She didn’t reply; any words would have been cheap and insufficient. Instead, she pulled off her own boots and belt and climbed beside him on the bed. She nestled his head into her lap and sat against the headboard, gently stroking his hair and shoulders until his breathing evened out. 

She held him, awake and sentinel against his nightmares for a long time. It didn’t matter that she’d had less than a few hours snatched rest herself. It didn’t matter that they needed a war plan quickly to deal with the Wardens at Adamant. It didn’t matter that she probably still stank of horse and should have eaten ages ago. It only mattered that he slept, that he was safe and calm in her arms. 

Even when he wasn’t calm, she held him, refusing to let go as he thrashed in a nightmare. She held him and whispered in his ear, and he put his nose to her neck and inhaled deeply before finally settling down again. That was when she noticed one of her letters tucked beneath a pillow. It still had her scent on it. 

If she wept silently into the mess of unruly hair beneath her chin, at least he wasn’t awake to hear her heart break with love for him. 

…

  
  


“Hey, Stabs, this is my hiding spot.” 

Evelyn cracked open one eye as Varric finished climbing up the ladder to the roof of the tall, largely tower. Repairs were still ongoing within, and they’d not reached a consensus on what was most needed for the space. She’d already mentally decided she was going to turn it over to the mages, but it would need some delicate handling on her part. She was too tired at the moment.

Her heavy wool cloak sat wrapped around her shoulders, the fur lining turned inside to protect from the cold night air. “I’ll share it for a swig of that whiskey,” she told him. 

Varric didn’t argue, and passed her his flask. He settled in beside her against the cold stone, with his own pile of blankets. Silently, he unwrapped a parcel with fresh bread and some cheese, and a few ripe plums. She raised her eyebrows. “Shipment from Kirkwall?” Plums weren’t all that common this far south, after all.

He handed her one. “Yeah.” They ate in silence for a few minutes, and she took another sip of spirits to ward off the chill. “How is he?” Varric asked at last.

“Better,” Evelyn acknowledged. “Sleeping. The fever’s gone. Got a tea and poultice from Owen; I wasn’t sure how he’d react to a spirit healer in the middle of his deliriousness.”

“Good call.” 

Evelyn took the bread he offered her and chewed quietly. She sighed. “I can hear the conversation we’re going to have already in my head. He’ll feel guilty he’s put more burden on my shoulders, I’ll tell him he’s not a burden, but he won’t believe me. He’ll feel worse for my having taken care of him, for taking time away that I could have spent on other things that he’ll see as far more important. But it’s not. I need him, Varric.” 

Varric said nothing, only passed the flask back to her. 

“I need him as my Commander. I need him as my friend. I need him as my support. And I’m furious at him for pushing himself so hard, for not taking care of himself. For not,” she paused and took in a long breath, “for not seeing himself as important. He knows he’s a good general, he’s confident in his ability to fight. But he doesn’t see anything worthwhile in himself outside of those things. How can he let me love him if he can’t love himself?”

Varric settled back against the wall and looked up at the clear night sky. “Shit, Evie. I wish I knew. I’ve never known my ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to love.” He shrugged slightly. “I think Cullen knows he had worth beyond what the Chantry has told him for nearly twenty years his only worth was. I think that’s why he left the Order. But it’s hard, when all you hear for so long is someone telling you what you  _ should _ be, even when you know you can’t be what they try and force you to be. You have to get out of that box, and often you just make yourself a whole new box to live in instead. Hell, I’m not making any sense.” 

“No,” she argued, “you are. I understand. Believe me, I understand, Varric. To escape the story someone else wrote, you write your own and try to fit yourself into it. But sometimes, you write yourself into a corner, or in a role that isn’t right either. Wait, what is in this whiskey that I’m making metaphors this bad?”

They looked at each other and laughed at the same time. He took a long drink from the flask and handed it to her. “Ah, shit, Stabs. Fuck labels.”

“Fuck labels,” she agreed. “And boxes, and stories.”

“Hey, not the stories. Leave the stories alone.” 

She snorted and twisted the cap back on the flask, having had more than enough. A few more pieces of bread and cheese followed suit, to try and steady her stomach. She brushed the crumbs from her cloak and leaned back against the wall, sighing. “Varric?”

“Yeah?”

“I love him. I wasn’t sure, you know? I’ve never felt it for anyone before. But that’s what this is, right? I love him. I love him so much I can’t breathe for the room it takes up inside me.” 

“I know, Evie.” He patted her arm. “I know. No one’s saying it’ll be easy, but shit. If anyone can make anything work in this fucked up world, it’s the two of you. You walked out of the Fade, got tossed into the future and came back, faced down an ancient magister darkspawn, and had a whole mountain fall on you. I think you can make Curly realize he’s stronger than he thinks he is, and worthy of you. I’m pretty sure he feels the same way about you, you know. When he looks at you, it’s the only time he’s not frowning.” 

She put her arm around Varric’s broad shoulders and pulled him in for an awkward hug. “I’m drunk enough that I’m going to get sentimental and clingy, so deal with it, dwarf.” 

He laughed, and hugged her back. “Fine. Just don’t make a habit of it. Bianca-”

“Shut up about your crossbow and just be my friend right now, okay?”

“I can do that, Stabs. Ten more minutes out here and then a hand of Wicked Grace?”

“Fireplace, my quarters. Bring Solas, Bull, and Jesper. More whiskey.” 

…

When she woke, he was in her quarters. She knew before opening her eyes. Elderflower and oakmoss. Fresh coffee. The currant buns she liked most. Woodsmoke from a freshly laid fire. The scent of the tea he favored. The sharp smell of winter air.

Evelyn opened her eyes slowly. Cullen stood on one of the balconies, the one that looked down into the garden. A cup of tea steamed in his hand, and he looked out at the mountains with a calm expression. She closed her eyes briefly against the swell of emotion that bubbled up within her. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how concerned she’d been that he’d avoid her after what happened.

His confession, his weakness, his horrible nightmares and the fever that had lain him down for three whole days...He had pushed himself too far, and she wanted to be angry with him for it, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t done the same to herself. Many times over. 

It had been pure luck, or divine intervention, or sheer tenacity, that she’d survived the fall of Haven. It wasn’t through her own efforts. She hadn’t cared in the slightest if she lived or died, she just kept moving forward. If he only knew how reckless she’d truly been, he’d be equally furious.

He turned around and watched her as she stirred and sat up. She ran a hand through her messy hair and looked at him. He looked...better. Far better. Wordlessly, she held out her arms, and within moments he was back inside and holding her close to his chest. “I would say,” he murmured into her hair, “that I’m sorry for worrying you, but those words are hollow. I am sorry for causing you pain and concern, but I am also more grateful than I can ever show you for your support.” 

She didn’t trust herself to say anything, only burrowing her head into his chest and breathing the steady scent of him. “I’ve never told anyone before,” he continued, stroking a hand up and down her back. “What happened to me in Ferelden’s Circle Tower, I mean. Not all of it. I tried so very hard for so very long to never think on it if I could. I never wanted to tell anyone, to let out that darkness. But now that I have...I feel as though I can face it, finally.” 

Evelyn drew back slightly and looked up at him, her hand moving to his cheek of its own accord. “Not alone, Cullen.” 

He closed his eyes and leaned into his touch. “Are you certain? You have already given me so much. I have no right to ask for more.

“Of course I’m certain. I love you, you idiot, and I’m not letting you go.” She ran her thumb over his lips. “And you have every right to ask everything of me.”

His eyes opened and met hers, and Maker _ ,  _ she could drown in them if he let her. “Because I love you.”

She smiled. “I had hoped I wouldn’t have to say it for you, thank you.” 

Cullen rested his brow against hers. “My whole life I feel as though I’ve been searching for something that was missing. I never thought to find it here, to find that you are the shape of that piece. I left the Order to find myself, but I feel as though with you I can be the best possible version of the man I should be.” 

“The man you  _ are _ , Cullen,” she told him firmly. “Do you trust me?”

“Completely.”

“Then trust that my love is not some girlish infatuation and that I see you clearly. If I ever need to replace you as Commander, I will. If I ever doubt your judgement, I will tell you. But you are the most worthwhile, the bravest, the strongest, and most noble soul I have ever known. It is through your gaze I can see the leader I can be, and believe it. You give me every bit as much as I can give you, and I promise you, I will not let that go without a fight.” 

He kissed her cheek softly. “Never without a fight?” 

“Never,” she confirmed, and tilted her face to his. The kiss was soft at first, then firmed with passion as his tongue danced over hers and he pulled her tightly against him. She worked swiftly at the fastenings on his tunic, tugging them loose along with his belt. “You are mine.”

His hand cupped the back of her head, fingers threaded through her hair as he kissed her neck. “And you are mine,” he said, words dancing in hot breath across her skin. 

Evelyn gripped his shoulders as she slid into his lap. “Then make me feel it.” She kissed him hard. “Take me. Don’t be gentle. I don’t want gentle.” She bit his lip. “I want to feel you.” His hands closed around her legs and pulled her close. “I want to feel you until I can’t feel anything but you.” 

He said nothing but followed his lips on her shoulder with his teeth and she shuddered. His hands pulled her shift down over her breasts and the feeling of their taut peaks scraping along the coarse linen of his open tunic and its cold metal fastenings was painfully erotic. Fingers gripped her hair firmly and with his arm across her back, she was trapped against him. He pushed up the hem of her shift while she deftly worked the laces on his breeches. 

Cullen growled against her chest as he pushed inside quickly and deeply. Evelyn gasped with the friction of it, but she wanted it so badly that any discomfort that might have been only heightened her pleasure. He tugged at her hair and she bent with the pressure backward until he could close his teeth around a nipple. She cried out and jerked her hips against him, driving his cock still deeper within her. His free hand guided her hips into a hard rhythm, her back arched and breast still captive in his mouth. 

But he was seated on the edge of the bed and unable to get the purchase he needed. She could tell as he shifted impatiently against her. After a few moments of the heated tension, he released her, lifted her by her waist - Maker, he was strong, lifting her as though she weighed nothing only a day after his fever broke - and practically threw her onto bed with enthusiasm. 

She grinned while he kicked himself free of his trousers, boots, and smalls. Cullen took one hot look at her on the bed with her legs splayed and ready for him before returning his lips to hers with a hard, rough passion. Evelyn lifted her hips as he practically ripped off her shift, letting him have complete and total control. She wanted to feel him claim her with every bit as much possessiveness as she had felt for him. 

He slid into her, gripping her hips and pulling her closer to him as he knelt between her legs. His thumb brushed over her core as he held her still, and he watched her as she bucked against him in pleasure. She felt pinned under that amber gaze and everywhere his eyes raked felt hot and tight. She wiggled her hips impatiently, but he still held her motionless as his fingers worked her flesh. He circled that node of pleasure and then dipped his fingers down to brush the place they joined and the sensitive opening there that was stretched around him.

She grew tighter around his cock in anticipation and tried to move so she could build up the friction, but he wouldn’t budge. “Cullen,” she whimpered.

His other hand moved from her hip up to her chest and held her down, gently but firmly. “Hush,” he crooned to her. “Let me love you.” She jumped against his hold when he brushed a knuckle lower past her rear. He swirled a finger around the entrance of her cunt, along his own shaft, gathering moisture, and then slid it back down to touch her backside again while his thumb stretched to press firmly against her clit. His other palm was splayed above her breasts, holding her in place. “Is that too much?” he asked without pausing. “Should I stop?”

“Don’t,” she panted, “you fucking  _ dare _ stop.” His low chuckle sent goosebumps along her skin, nipples tightening painfully.

The feeling of his long fingers teasing her ass while his hardness filled her and his thumb flicked relentlessly at that sweet, sweet bundle of sensation drove her wild. She moaned, pleaded, panted, begged him not to stop but also begged him to move, to give her more. He only held her more firmly and refused to pause his efforts as she bucked and thrashed against him. Finally, she came crashing over the edge, her entire body spasming with the force of it. 

Cullen closed his eyes at the feeling of her walls tightening around him and groaned. Before the final waves of pleasure had washed through her, he was moving. Rough, hard, and fast he took her, hands on the back of her thighs, bending her knees towards her shoulders and opening her as wide as she could be. He plunged in and out with a force that sent a sharp, stinging pleasure spiraling through her wet, sensitive heat. 

He let go of her legs and she wrapped them around his waist, urging him deeper with a press of her heel to his buttocks. He growled and obliged, his breath coming in pants across her throat. His pace became unsteady and he bit her shoulder again as he came. She could feel the heat of his seed as it spilled in her and that mixed with the friction of his skin against her sex and the moans of his passion made her shudder with a delayed wave of her own second orgasm. 

He would have moved his weight from her, but she held them there, refusing to untangle her legs from around him. He gave in and relaxed in her warmth, their sweat mingling as he kissed her thoroughly. “Mine,” he whispered against her lips. 

“Yours,” she agreed, exhausted and glowingly happy, “utterly.”

...

She had been busy while he was ill, Cullen noted. Across her desk sat siege plans and letters of alliance between whatever powers they could persuade. King Alistair had called in a couple of markers for them, and Josephine had wheedled an entire contingent of sappers out of their dwarven contacts. Evelyn had claimed an entire fort in the Western Approach after clearing it of Venatori agents before she left, and she’d turned it over to Captain Rylen’s competent hands. He already had siege equipment en route. 

There were some notes on an actual battle plan, but they were obviously lacking. Still, it was more than enough to make up for the time he’d lost to his own foolishness. He watched her sleep, and smiled to himself. 

_ Listen, Curly,  _ Varric had told him, pulling him aside as soon as the dwarf had seen him cross the courtyard,  _ she needs you, and she needs you whole and healthy. So whatever you think of yourself, don’t pull that shit again. For her sake. _

He wasn’t the first to mention it, but he’d been the most succinct. It chastened him, of course, but also in a surprising way...it had reassured him. He hadn’t thought about himself at all, had pushed his limits since they received her letter about the Wardens. If he could just do one more thing before sleep, or make sure that report got out, or secured that supply line...Maker, he was an idiot. He’d disregarded his own wellbeing, and been aptly punished for it. Yet it had never occurred to him for a moment how his failing health would affect anyone else. 

The thought of being strong for someone else’s sake wasn’t a new one, but this was a new form of it. Before, he’d always had to push down what was wrong, deny the pain and hide it in order to serve and protect those that needed his protection. This was different, and he hadn’t seen that before. Evelyn needed him not only for those qualities he was confident in, but the rest of himself as well. She needed his mind, his thoughtfulness, and his opinions as much as she needed his expertise on strategy and his physical strength. 

The Chantry had only ever let him be a quarter of the man he was, had only cared about those qualities that best served the Order. But Evelyn wanted and needed him to find the wholeness of himself and bring that to the table. It shouldn’t have surprised him to find the Inquisitor side of herself not at war with the side that was his lover, but it had. She had supported him completely, pushed him to stop hiding his pain, and then given him the chance to come to her instead of hovering over him and demanding his obedience. 

And when he came to her, she gave him all of herself and submitted to him. She gave him control and the ability to stop it all or accept her as she’d accepted him. If she had taken over the path their pleasure took, it would have felt less freeing, somehow. Had she known that? Her power over him was intense. He wouldn’t have refused her anything she wanted. But she’d let him set the pace, let him pleasure her as he’d wanted to, her body and her pleas letting him know she could bear the weight of it. 

He hadn’t even known that need in him, that depth of passion. But Evelyn pulled loose parts of him locked away so tightly he’d not even known of their existence. He smiled into his teacup as he gave up reading the report he should have been reading. He’d already sent off the orders that needed to be sent most urgently. It was time he trusted Rylen to take command of the outpost in the Approach as he would have wanted when he was second-in-command. They’d need to be down in a War Council meeting, but not for another few hours yet, and Evelyn needed her sleep. 

The way she’d come loose under his hands, how it had felt to coax such a strong reaction from her, to have her cry out for him and plead...It was a heady sensation, to be wanted that much by someone, and to want her as much in return. The notion that he could make her feel so good was immensely satisfying. 

And he was half hard already, thinking about it. He shook his head ruefully at himself. Like a callow youth first discovering what pleasure was. Really, he ought to take advantage of this quiet period and sleep alongside her. He hadn’t forgotten the way she held him through the worst of his nightmares, and how her scent had helped calm them. Maybe he could sleep without any for once. 

Cullen stood and approached the bed, but Evelyn stirred as he drew near. She stretched and he watched appreciatively as the blankets fell away from beautifully naked flesh. They’d both bathed, but she’d fallen back asleep before bothering to dress. He grinned. “Your hair is a mess,” he told her. She’d not braided it while it was wet, and now it curled and bunched in haphazard tangles. It looked remarkably erotic, with mahogany waves dipping over her shoulders, ends long enough to brush against blushing pink nipples.

She wrinkled her nose at his comment but a slow, sultry smile spread over her face as she watched him and deliberately stretched again. From he stance at the edge of the bed he was afforded a marvelous view as her legs kicked free of the linens. She turned sideways so her head was facing him. He threaded his hand through her hair and tried to ignore how close her glorious lips were to his rapidly hardening cock.

Until she put that mouth right over his breeches and around his shaft. Then it wasn’t really possible to ignore. 

Cullen groaned and tilted his head back. “Maker, woman, you’ll be the death of me.” 

“Only a little one,” she replied, her voice husky from sleep. “But so many little deaths I have planned for you.” 

“Planned?” He stroked her cheek as she worked his laces once more with her fingers. 

She eased his erection free and stroked her index finger along the length. “Spontaneity is grand,” she commented, eyes never leaving his manhood, even as she reached down and cupped her hands around his balls. The warmth of her touch sent a shudder through him. “But it’s nice to have an outline of a battle plan, don’t you agree, Commander?” 

If he had a pithy response, it was completely lost when she took the entire length of him into her mouth. He could only gasp, and pitch forward slightly. Praise the Maker or whomever supplied her with such a high bed, he thought as he reached down and gripped her round, firm buttocks in his hands. Feeling the curve of flesh beneath his palms while her mouth worked up and down his cock was intensely erotic, and she moaned as he squeezed her cheeks. The vibration made her tongue dance on the skin she caressed with it. 

She fit all of him in her mouth without even flinching, he marveled. It made him feel powerful and desired in equal measure. Slowly, he pulled his hips back from her face and then brought them forward again. He had to fight to remember how to breath as the sensitive head of his cock slid over her tongue. 

He looked down at her and found her eyes gazing up at him with complete adoration, and that nearly undid him. He caressed her bottom and worked his fingers up her back until he brought them to the sides of her head and once more threaded his fingers into her hair. Without breaking eye contact, she brought her hands up to his hips, balancing her weight on her elbows, and pushed him gently before pulling him back again. “Are you,” he said hoarsely, “certain this is all right?”

In answer, she bobbed her head quickly along his cock, pulling his hips into a thrusting rhythm. 

He swore roundly, using words he hadn’t used outside of a barracks in ten years and gripped her head tightly. He kept himself to a moderate pace, sliding in and out of her mouth and stretching out how unbelievably, incredibly amazing it felt. Or at least, he tried to keep himself to a moderate pace, but she was humming encouragement every time he panted her name like a prayer. 

She shifted and managed to get her hands around to grip his ass and pulled him flush against her wide open lips. The head of his cock touched the back of her throat and he moaned with the possessive power of it. Evie worked her tongue against it in a swallowing motion and the suction produced unbelievable pleasure. He pulled back and thrust harder, guided by the pressure of her fingers as they dug into his backside. His fingers were tightly gripping her hair but she purred when he accidentally pulled it and so he repeated the motion. 

Her hips squirmed on the bed and the knowledge of how much she liked this spurred him on until it was too much and he was coming hard in her mouth. She pulled him deeper and kept him there when he would have pulled out, and he felt her tongue work along his shaft. He jerked as he felt her fingers gently pull and caress his sack - and oh, Maker’s breath, he had never had someone touch him like that before. He came longer than he thought he could have, and she swallowed every last drop of his seed. 

“Fuck,” he panted, easing his grip on her hair. “Oh, fuck.  _ Evie _ .”

Cullen was almost sorry as she let his cock slide out of her mouth. But then she sat back on her heels with her knees spread and pressed a hand to her sex. Her mouth was red and swollen and wet and her eyes were hazy with want. She licked her lips slowly as he watched and then leaned back, bracing herself with one arm while her other hand worked her own pleasure. 

He wanted to watch, but even more he wanted to taste. Her huff of surprise as he tipped her over was gratifying, as was her long, loud, and low moan as he closed his lips around her clit. She was soaking wet and he slid two fingers inside of her cunt easily, gratified as she moaned louder and gripped his hair as hard as he’d gripped hers. His tongue roved along her salty yet somehow sweet tasting flesh. He licked her thoroughly and she was squirming against his mouth the same way she’d shuddered against him before. 

He remembered the first time they made love and how she’d angled herself to reach some spot on the inside that brought her intense pleasure. He tried to find it with his fingers and replicate the pleasure, and knew he was successful by the way she threw her head back and cried his name. “Oh shit, shit, shit,” she panted. “ _ Please _ , Cullen. Oh Maker!”

He kept repeating the motion that made her cry out and her hips bucked against his mouth. He closed his lips around her clit and suckled her hard and rough while he drove her higher with the motions of his hand, harder as she urged him to. He was afraid it would hurt her but she pled and cried and came with a full-on scream that she tried to muffle against her own palm.

He gently withdrew his fingers, pausing when her walls spasmed around them and clenched tight. He lavished her sex with long, slow licks of his tongue until her shudders finally ceased and she relaxed, panting and shivering. He pressed a kiss to the mound of dark curls at the junction of her thighs. “I think,” he said, finding her bewildered gaze, “that’s more of a proper homecoming for you, Inquisitor?”

She grinned and threw her head back, laughing. When she was finished, she looked down at where he rested his head, still between her legs. “This is certainly a sight I could get used to.”

He flicked teasingly at her clit and she gasped, pulling her legs away and laughing again. He followed her to the pillows and bent over her with a long, languorous kiss. There was a muskiness to her tongue, and he realized it was probably the taste of his own flesh, as she undoubtedly could taste herself on his. 

He’d already started to get hard again, and that taste firmed up his cock thoroughly. She felt it and opened her legs. He withdrew from her mouth and raised an eyebrow. Evelyn nodded and leaned back against the pillows, her arms spread. “I am yours,” she told him breathlessly.

“Beloved,” Cullen told her, “I am also yours.” 

Cullen took her, but slowly, tenderly. There was no urgency to their coupling, no frantic pulling and bucking this time. He moved with long, lazy strokes and she stretched beneath him, running her hands softly along his skin, murmuring words of love in his ear, whispering them against his hair.

When they came, they came together in an equally slow orgasm. Her hand worked between them, index fingers around the base of his cock, her thumb slowly stroking her own clit in time with his strokes. She gasped and let out a shuddering breath with his name whispered on it, and he followed her as soon as he felt her tighten around him. With one final, deep thrust, he emptied himself of everything he was into her, and she held him tightly when he collapsed with the exhaustion of it. 

In a few hours they would be the Inquisitor and the Commander again, and they would plan a horrible siege against an Order that had long been Thedas’s last hope. Waging war on the heroes of old to save them from their own hubris would take a toll on all of them, to say nothing of their untested soldiers. He trusted them, but it would be hard fought and ugly. 

But for the moment, they could keep that ugliness at bay and simply hold each other. Warm, and glowing with love, he nestled into her arms and simply looked at her. Words were insufficient and unnecessary. It was only them in the world, for this one, beautiful moment. 

The darkness would come soon enough. Let it wait a little longer. 

  
  



	24. Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought I was done with curveballs?

“Well,” Varric said, looking around at the red towers of crystalline lyrium jutting from the ground, “shit.” 

Dorian groaned. “I feel ill.” 

“Try a modified barrier,” Solas advised. “Perhaps we also might go back and carry extra elfroot extraction for the headache.” He winced and rubbed his temple. 

Evelyn turned to a scout and sent them running back to the camp on the other side of Sahrnia. Jesper looked around and grimaced. “Is it always this bad?” 

“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “This is unique.” 

“Hmm,” he mused. “We have a flash-frozen river starving out a town, a quarry taken over by these Red Templar lads, and a particularly clever Desire demon apparently helping those Templars, which is - this is just nuts, cousin.” 

Vess looked pale but her face was set in determined features. “That river was frozen by powerful magic. My guess is Imshael.” 

“I don’t suppose there’s any word from Cullen so we can just skip right ahead to the Western Approach where at least it’s warm?” Varric groused.

“I thought dwarves didn’t feel cold,” Dorian muttered.

“We’re not as delicate as you lot from Tevinter, but this much time in subzero plus red lyrium headaches is not my idea of a fun time on the road.” 

Solas was ignoring them and focusing on Vessana. “You know of this demon?”

Vess shook her head slightly and pursed her lips. “Old stories, that is all. We’ll see how much water they hold. Jesper and I will advance and scout out the keep.”

“I’ll go with you,” Dorian offered. “I don’t know that my barrier’s strong enough to withstand the quarry.” 

Evelyn raised an eyebrow and traded a look with Varric, but said nothing. If Dorian was admitting any kind of weakness, the effect the red lyrium was having on must be serious. “Solas, are you able to come with us?”

“I am,” he confirmed. He traded a few words of advice with Dorian, then joined Evelyn and Varric. 

Varric scouted ahead for a path mostly clear of red lyrium debris. Evelyn tightened her boot laces against the ankle-deep snow and followed, Solas keeping easy pace beside her. He still walked largely barefoot and honestly a little underclad for the cold, though he wore a thick hide tunic over his usual cotton and his leggings were wool. Still, his toes, fingers, head, and ears were all bare to the biting winter air. 

She felt like an overstuffed bird next to him, in several layers of warm wool, leather, and hide. Her hair was held back by wool wrappings around her crown that covered the tips of her ears but still left enough free to hear well. She wanted to ask him about it, but did not get the chance. 

Solas glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Your cousin…”

Evelyn winced. “Vess or Jesper? Jes is obnoxious at times, but he’s sort of like Dorian in that regard. Bluster to cover up vulnerability.”

“No,” he replied. “I understand Jesper well enough. He is much like his father, your uncle, though there is a bit of your aunt’s temper in him as well. No, it is Vessana I speak of.” 

Evelyn frowned. “I honestly don’t know her that well. She was off training with various teachers while I was with the Hunters. I trust her, though, and not only because she’s family. Maker knows I have family I still don’t trust.” She shrugged. “Vess plays her cards close to her chest, especially when it comes to magical knowledge. She’s always after the truth of things, the history behind the stories and convictions. Curiosity is, I gather, a difficult trait in someone trying to straddle two worlds. It was tough for me as a highborn girl, after all, to express my desire to learn and explore, even with supportive parents. Vess has had to walk between the human world and the Dalish, and it has not been an easy task.”

“I imagine not, no.” He sighed and glanced away before looking back at Evelyn. “I, too, know old tales of Imshael. He is rumored to be a Forgotten One: one of a number of very powerful, and very ancient beings. You could call them demons, of course, but that would be underestimating just how dangerous they are.” 

She groaned. “Great. That’s...great.” She let Solas’s words sink in a little more. As usual, there was always something he left unsaid. “You think Vess has more knowledge than just tales?”

“I am concerned, that is all. There were rumors last year of an incident in Orlais, involving our friend the chevalier back in Sahrnia. Imshael reportedly laid waste to the majority of a Dalish clan. He spared the children, but sent them to another clan that was on the brink of winter starvation. Such are the stark choices he likes to make his victims face.”

“Were you with that clan?”

“I was not, no. But I heard of the incident. I imagine a lot of elves did. Society’s downtrodden tend to have communication networks that span unseen through the world. Our friend Sera is proof enough of that.” 

Evelyn frowned again. “Vess was with Clan Lavellan in the Marches. But I suppose it’s reasonable that word reached them. Dalish clans must have ways to stay in touch, since they have to trade mage children around.” 

Solas hummed under his breath, but nodded. Evelyn shot him a sharp look, but he smiled slightly. “Forgive me, lethallan. I’ve been too long on my own. It is difficult to trust at times.” 

She touched his arm briefly. “Don’t let anyone in my family get under your skin. I mean. Unless you want them to. Duncan and Mirana are into some interesting activities, though I’m going back to forgetting I know that right now.” 

Her strategy worked and earned a chuckle out of him, shaking Solas from the shadows that seemed to hang over his head at times. “If you two are done with your heart to heart,” Varric’s voice interrupted, “we’ve got trouble ahead.” 

Oddly, the words sent a little thrill of excitement through Evelyn. She’d been too long at a desk or a war table, spent so many hours pouring over maps and battle numbers and strategies. It left so much room to doubt herself, the knowledge that so many lives rested on her decisions. 

But this? Fighting these damnable fools who had already turned themselves into monsters beyond recognition? This was simple, and left no room for doubt. 

The fight was quick. The Templars still leaned far too heavily on their lyrium, and far too lightly on technique. They were monstrously strong, but cumbersome. Or at least, most of them were.

Out of the shadows darted an alarmingly quick figure. Evelyn had time only to parry and push back, catching a quick glimpse of a svelte gray form holding long and wickedly sharp lyrium blades. She kicked viciously where she expected the knife-wielder to move, and was rewarded with a surprised grunt. When she turned around, the figure had moved on to the next vulnerable target: Varric. 

Time seemed to slow down as Evelyn saw the Templar rogue clearly. He did not, in fact, wield knives of lyrium. The shards were his hands and forearms. With a buzz of lyrium, he seemed to shift in and out of visibility, moving far faster than a normal human and making it difficult for the eye to follow. For a human, at least. Solas whipped his head around to track the movements, but even he seemed to struggle. He called out a warning to Varric, who turned, wide-eyed.

And that was when the Templar struck. 

She saw the figure leap up and start to strike down with both arms in a parody of a fanged attack she knew well. A hot knife of fear lanced through Evelyn. She was too far away, they were all too far away. Varric would die. He would die to what he hated most. All his stories would be gone. His gruff voice, laced with humor, gone. 

Varric!

Visions filled her mind of Varric’s headless body dragged by a demon, Varric infected with red lyrium in Redcliffe’s dungeon...she couldn’t...Her entire body rebelled against the notion of losing her friend. Without thinking, without pondering the impossibility, Evelyn pitched herself forward and leaped-

-and countered the attack. Her blades rang out solidly against the lyrium, sending a spiderweb of cracks through it. The creature howled in pain and Varric took its distraction as opportunity to roll aside. Evelyn struck again with her foot and dislodged the Templar, then struck down quickly with a blade, decapitating it with all the force of Harrit’s excellently sharpened steel. 

Another enemy bore down on her and she reacted with all the pent-up rage in her veins. Her blade went through flesh and she roared. The Templar arched backwards in agony, his body spasming as waves of lightning washed over him. Another Templar moved in her peripheral vision and she sent a dagger flying towards him, only belatedly realizing that her blades were still on her belt and what she’d flung at her enemy had been a deadly sharp blade of ice.

A few moments later, Bianca fell silent and the fight was done. Evelyn stumbled and fell to her knees, panting. “What the shit, Stabs?” Varric wondered aloud. “How...thank you, but how…”

She couldn’t really hear him. Not against the roaring in her mind. She didn’t know. She didn’t know. How could she know? How could she leap across the dozens of feet between herself and Varric in time to defend him? The ice, the lightning...that had been her. Her rage made manifest in magic.

Evelyn’s vision swam and she struggled to breathe. 

_ At least she isn’t a mage. _ Her uncle’s voice. Tinged with distaste.  _ Her curiosity would have her made Tranquil in no time. _

Katy’s body, broken, burning. The rock, the strength in her arms as she wielded it. But no, not rock. Not stone. 

Ice. 

So cold. She’d dampened the fire, put out the burning with ice but Katy wouldn’t wake up. All the energy and wanting couldn’t fix the broken spine, couldn’t call her spirit back. She had encased the hurlock in ice and shattered it with the rock. The sickness…

Mama’s fingers, soft and reassuring.  _ Forget _ . 

Evelyn felt bile rise and was sick. It took ages for her stomach to stop heaving. “Lethallan,” Solas’s voice, murmuring softly against her ear. He pulled her into a strong embrace and held her as she shivered. 

“Is she…” Varric didn’t bother to finish the sentence. “Shit.” 

“Yes,” Solas replied tightly. “It would appear so.” 

“How is that even possible?”

“I do not know. For her sake, I wish I did.” Slender fingers pushed back the hair that had come loose, and pressed a glass vial filled with blue liquid towards her mouth. “Drink, Evelyn.” 

She obeyed, through instinct, even while her mind rebelled against the notion of taking a lyrium potion. It tasted as cool as it looked, like ice and mint and something unidentifiable. Something earthy and mineral. Almost immediately, her shaking stopped. She still clung to Solas, the only anchoring presence in her spinning world. 

Varric swore again. “Is it the mark?”

“No,” she whispered. “No, it’s not.” She squeezed her eyes closed as memories unbound shifted through her mind. “Mama...hid me.” 

She knew nothing else but blackness.

…

_ The fireplace was warm, and Evelyn sat before it, curled up in a nest of cushions. A habit of childhood, when she would pass long winter rains by reading in cozy warmth. Mama sat next to her and passed a goblet of wine. “Hello, my little love,” she said. _

_ Evelyn took the wine but made no move to drink. “How could you do this to me?” _

_ “Keep you safe, you mean?” Her mother wondered. “Keep you out of the Circle?” _

_ She tossed the wine into the fire, making it spit. “None of this makes sense! How could you have done this at all, let alone why? Are you a mage?” _

_ “Yes,” her mother answered simply, and calmly. “I am.”  _

_ That took the wind right out of Evelyn’s furious sails. “Does Papa know?” _

_ Her mother turned to look at her then, and smiled softly. “Yes, Evelyn. He does. He knows all of it.”  _

_ A sick feeling was roiling her in her stomach. “Why? Why would you hide me from myself? Why would you take my memories? Who else knows? Why-” she broke off on a sob. She couldn’t even fully articulate the pain, it was so deep. Her very foundations had been shaken and she was no longer who she’d always thought she was. Through everything horrible that had ever happened, at least she’d had some sense of self, but now...that self was entirely a lie.  _

_ “No,” her mother crooned softly, moving forward and gathering Evelyn into her arms, “oh, no, my precious girl. You are whom you have always been. Your heart was strong from the moment you entered this world. I could hear you dreaming as you grew inside me. Such a sweet song of life and joy and wonder. You’ve never lost that. You’ve gained other things, and among them pain and anger. You’ve tasted despair, but you never let it consume you, not wholly. You still sought out joy. I might have wished for a different method,” she added and Evelyn laughed despite herself, “but you refused to only feel hurt and pain.”  _

_ Her mother sighed. “Some of that is my fault. This spell was never meant to last as long as it did. It was only meant to last long enough for me to get you out of Ostwick and wait until Alric’s attention was no longer on you. You only had to pass inspection by the Circle.” _

_ “What changed?” Evelyn asked softly.  _

_ “You, sweetheart,” she answered, sadly. “You couldn’t let go of that anger. It was so bright inside you...I...you would have been shining like a beacon in the Fade. I had to wait until we got you past it, before I could take down the spell and start teaching you.”  _

_ Evelyn sniffed. “I could have gone with Owen.” _

_ “No, love. Circles don’t allow family to stay together; it’s too much of a risk. They would have sent you to the next nearest Circle: Starkhaven or Kirkwall.” She winced. “Your uncle was pushing for Kirkwall. He liked their Knight-Commander’s harsh methods to subdue the mages in her charge.”  _

_ Everything Cullen had told her rose in her memory, and she felt ill again. Had they met then...it hardly bore consideration, though she knew it would be nightmare fodder for a long time. He was a different man then, he’d said. She’d have been a different person, no matter what her mother believed. The trauma would’ve been the same, but she’d have had the power to do something with all that anger. Something terrible. Would she have taken it? _

_ “You have power now,” her mother told her. “You had power and strength and skill then. Have you ever killed in outright malice? Magic may be an easier, more powerful weapon, but the mind that wields it is the same. If you can resist the simplest temptation with the least amount of consequence, you can resist the greater. It makes no difference. You must only know yourself.”  _

_ A horrible suspicion snuck over Evelyn and she pulled away. “Was it blood magic? Did you hide my memories and my power with blood magic?” _

_ Her mother winced again. “Blood magic isn’t as simple as what the Chantry would have you believe.” _

_ “Mother.” _

_ “Yes,” she admitted. “It was a form of blood magic. You consented, however. You may remember that in time.” _

_ Her heart raced and a rushing sound filled her ears. She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to remain calm. Logs in the fireplace. A crackling fire. Spilled wine. Her mother’s scent of lilacs and honey. “I was hardly in a position to make a coherent decision about my own mind. I was ten, Mama. Ten, and terrified.”  _

_ “I know,” her mother answered softly. “Every day for the past decade and more, I have wanted to tell you. I have wanted to strip away the magic and bring your power back to you, but I…” _

_ “You what?” Evelyn prompted, her jaw clenching. “What, Mother?” _

_ “I was frightened.”  _

_ The words dropped like a stone in Evelyn’s stomach. Her mother was the most stalwart of souls, and frightened of nothing. She would face down a rampaging army if she had to and not flinch. “Of me?” _

_ “Of losing you. To your anger, or to...well. If you had told Max, I’d have lost you to the Circle.” _

_ “And Father would have lost Annreth as he paid the penalty for harboring an illegal mage.”  _

_ Her mother scoffed. “That has never been important to either of us in the face of your happiness, my love. You are our child. You are the only thing that has ever mattered to us. I don’t know if you can forgive me, Evelyn, I truly don’t. I love you beyond measure, and I am more sorry than I can ever tell you...I am sorry I could not think of another way to save you. I am sorry that I never told you. And I am so very sorry this is how it was discovered. I wanted to be there for you, both your father and I did.”  _

_ The reality of it began to sink into her skin, her bones. “Mama,” she whispered, the anger bleeding away into fear.  _

_ “You must not fear yourself, Evelyn,” her mother told her firmly. “Believe in your heart, as I do. As your followers do. You don’t need to be anyone’s Herald, my darling, but the faithful can see a reflection of divinity in you because of your actions, your convictions, and your resilience and determination. I have seen it in you from the moment they put you in my arms as a babe. Your father knows it, too. He lost his faith in the Maker and Andraste long ago, but he has always believed in you.”  _

_ “Mama,” she gasped, “what do I do? What if I hurt someone? How do I control it? I’m so scared.”  _

_ “Follow your heart, Evie. And trust those around you. Your friend sought me out and brought me to you because you needed me. There are many strong hands who will show you the way when I cannot be there.” Her mother closed her eyes. “I wish I could come to you, sweetheart.” _

_ “You cannot leave Papa.” _

_ She drew a deep, steadying breath. Was it from her that Evelyn had learned this, she wondered? “There is more to the story, more you do not know. I will tell you all when I see you next, but yes. For the time being, I cannot leave. There is far more at stake than our lands. I must trust your friends as you do, and know you are protected as I would wish to do myself. I know I can trust Aidan and Mirana with you. You will have to tell them the truth, but they will understand. Mirana may never speak to me again, but they will understand.”  _

_ Evelyn paused, and frowned. “You said...my friend brought you here? But you can’t leave.” _

_ Her mother smiled sadly. “I think it’s time for you to wake up now, sweetheart. I love you.” _

Evelyn gasped and jerked awake, her eyes wide in the pre-dawn gloom of the tent. A soft light radiated along with the heat from the coal brazier. As her eyes focused on the inside of her tent, she saw the light flicker along Solas’s familiar features as he sat cross-legged next to her cot. A flood of warm gratitude filled her and she reached out with one hand. His eyes opened, and he took her hand, smiling slightly. 

She tried to smile back, to show him it was all right, that everything was fine, but it wasn’t. Nothing was fine. Everything was broken. She gasped a breath in, half-choking on a sob. Sadness was written across Solas’s face in empathy, and he reached up to gently smooth back her hair. “Ah,  _ da’len _ ,” he sighed. “I am so very sorry. Your mother told me it all when I escorted her back to her own dreams.”

Crying was the only thing she was capable of. Solas waited patiently, curling around her to offer warmth as sobs wracked her body. At some point, Vess entered with mugs of the warm, spiced milk. Wordlessly, her cousin slipped into the cot on her other side and wrapped her arms around Evelyn’s middle while Solas stroked her hair. They were soon joined by Dorian, who dragged a sleepy Jesper in his wake. 

Varric stirred in the corner, where he’d sat the entire time, Evelyn realized. The dwarf plucked up one of Vess’s discarded mugs and sipped silently. Solas looked up as Dorian entered, and both men took seats on the floor. Dorian looked as though he was bursting with questions, but Solas’s look held him silent. 

Evelyn took a shaky breath. “Tell them,” she told Solas. “I can’t...I won’t hide it.” 

Solas hesitated, but then nodded assent. Gently, he told them what he knew. It was most of the tale. She had to speak a little, to fill in gaps with the Darkspawn encounter and the time spent locked in the wine cellar. The small fire she’d forgotten she conjured to keep herself warm. The force with which she’d knocked the window free, not just with her fingernails and determination. 

“ _ Kaffas _ ,” Dorian swore when the story was finished. He looked wan, as though all the blood had drained from his face. Jesper’s fingers were clasped tightly on Dorian’s shoulder, as though to offer support. Or to seek it. 

Out of everyone, only Vess seemed unsurprised. She lay behind Evelyn on the cot and rubbed her shoulder absently. “I knew something was off,” Vess murmured. “I thought maybe you were too weak in magic for anything to show. But you always smelled different.” 

“Smelled?” Evelyn asked, grateful her voice was steadying. 

Vess shrugged. “It’s as close as I can get to describing my sensitivity to magic and other mages. It’s not quite a scent, it’s more...but that sense is so evocative of imagery that it works as a description. So, yes, you smelled different.” 

Solas regarded her thoughtfully. “Truth be told, I had thought that was caused by the anchor,” he said. “However, if her aura felt like that before…”

“Is that what you call a mana shadow?” Dorian ventured. His voice was a little thin, but his face had sharpened with interest. “That does sound nicer, doesn’t it?”

“Mana shadow? Aura?” Varric asked.

“A mage’s imprint on the Veil,” Dorian explained. “Or rather…”

“The amount of Fade energy and interest a mage draws,” Solas filled in. “It’s usually indicative of the amount of power a mage can draw upon. For instance, both Vessana and Dorian have very powerful auras. It is difficult to describe to others, and very subjective. What I sense in Dorian may be different from what Vessana does.” 

Evelyn sat up gingerly. “What do I feel like?” 

Vess sat up with her. “Right now? Chaotic. Like too many dishes cooking in the kitchen at once.” 

“That would be your confusion reflected in your mana,” Solas told her. “But previously, it was...hmm.” He paused. “I am finding this difficult to describe in words, especially the Common tongue. I suppose it was most like hearing a voice shouted from a great distance, but through a pillow held over your ear.” 

Varric handed Evelyn the other mug. “Okay, I know this is serious shit and all but I can’t help it. Now I want to know what the rest of you sound or smell like or whatever to each other. This is fascinating.”

Solas glanced at Evelyn and she gave an imperceptible nod. It was better than fretting over herself. The elf looked up at the canopy of the tent in thought, then tilted his head. “Dorian feels like a summer thunderstorm,” he said. “Powerful and untamed, but life-giving and essential, where you find yourself captivated by the glory of nature.” 

Dorian blinked and looked a little embarrassed. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “thank you?”

“Petrichor,” Vessana added. “The smell of rain when it hits soil or stone, and that feeling when you smell it. As though you’ve woken up to a more vibrant world.” 

“Stop, I’ll blush,” Dorian replied, laughing. He seemed inordinately pleased, however. Evelyn cocked her head at him. It was interesting: his magic and his looks were the two things Dorian was most cocky about, most confident in. But perhaps he was only used to someone praising what his magic could do, not what it was. It was a reflection of the deepest part of himself, she realized, this power he wielded that moved from his very soul.

Solas looked to Vess with a slight smile. “A forgotten song,” he said softly. “It is caught in pieces, snatched on a breath of autumn wind that carries dried leaves and woodsmoke. When you hear it, everything within you recognizes it and knows it to be the deepest truth, but then it is lost again. The sweet despair of the search must continue.” 

It was said with a calm expression, but Evelyn found herself caught by the glint in Solas’s eyes. Hidden quickly, but there for a brief moment: a flame of longing. Vess exhaled slowly but did not speak.

“I should get your help with my next book, Chuckles. You’re quite the poet.” 

Varric’s wry voice broke the tension and they all laughed, Solas included. Dorian smiled. “He’s right, though for me it’s more like that sensation of...this  _ is _ hard to describe, isn’t it? Has anyone ever had that dream where you walk through the halls of somewhere familiar, and you know it’s your home or you’re meant to be there, but some part of you knows you’ve never actually seen it before? That.” 

Evelyn blinked. “I’ve actually had that dream.” 

“Me, too!” Vess exclaimed. “How odd the mind is.” 

Jesper agreed, and Varric shook his head. “I don’t understand you people and your dreaming. But,” he added, “I have been somewhere I’ve never been before and had it feel weirdly familiar. Bartrand said it was Stone sense, but I think it was just the whiskey.” 

They all turned to Solas expectantly, and to Evelyn’s surprise, he shifted a little uneasily. She opened her mouth to say they did not have to continue, knowing how dearly Solas held his privacy. She didn’t have the chance, however. Vess tilted her head, her dark hair sliding over her shoulder. “A forest in winter,” she said softly. “Pine, and crisp snow. Yet there’s a fire somewhere, and your feet are guided by it along the path, knowing respite is ahead. The feeling of calm certainty, knowing you have only to move forward and be rescued.” 

Dorian sat forward. “You know, that’s almost exactly what I sense as well, in a way. Guidance. Except books. Parchment and dust and ink, but that sense of knowing you’ll find exactly what you seek if you just turn the page. The excitement of new knowledge.” 

“That is,” Solas replied, his voice uncharacteristically thick, “most gratifying. Thank you.” He looked at Evelyn. “Can you sense anything?” he asked curiously, and she was brought back to reality. 

For a moment, fear lanced through her, but Solas held her gaze steadily. Dorian and Vess turned to her with...excitement? She thought of how they spoke of magic, how they handled it and something began to grow within her underneath the fear. Solas took her right hand in his, and Vess took her other, both of them seemingly surprised that the other did so. Each grip was reassuring and solid. 

Sitting between the two mages, she looked over and met Dorian’s compassionate eyes. Three mages, and her. A...mage. She was a mage. She was like them. Like Owen. Like her mother. She was not alone, they would not let her be. 

She looked at Solas and took a deep breath. He looked the same as always. She wasn’t sure what was there to sense, but then she was only looking with her eyes. She wasn’t feeling. She never let herself feel, did she? She never let herself simply exist in her emotions, always holding everything in check because of her anger. Except with Cullen…

...whose nightmares she’d soothed. Whose pain she’d tended. 

No, he would have known if it was magic she used, even inadvertently. Wouldn’t he? That was a thought for another time. She pushed it aside and focused on Solas. What did Solas make her feel?

Safe. “That feeling when there’s a storm raging outside, but you’re safely tucked away with blankets and a book. The raging chaos outside can’t touch you, so you’re free to explore your mind and words on the page...I don’t know, does that make sense at all?”

Solas squeezed her hand again. “Yes, lethallan. I...thank you.” 

“Vess is a forest. Unfamiliar but beautiful and green, and the path is unknown but steady as long as you follow the song of the rushing stream. Dorian, you’re…” Evelyn paused, laughing. “You’re that sense of excitement before something big happens. The morning of Satinalia when you’re a child.” 

Jesper, she noticed, had all but curled around Dorian, and pressed a kiss to the Tevinter mage’s bare shoulder. Ah, so that had happened, had it? Good. 

She looked around at her friends. “I’m a mage,” she said simply, her voice hollow.

Varric stepped forward and took the empty mug from in front of her cot. He met her eyes, and his expression was firm. “You’re Evelyn Trevelyan. My friend I call ‘Stabs.’”

Jesper smiled. “You’re my cousin and a perpetual thorn in our uncle’s side.” 

Behind Evelyn, Vess snorted in agreement. “You’re family. You are my blood. My clan, my people.”

“You are my dearest friend,” Dorian told her, “and the one person I believe in more than anything.” 

“ _ Emma lin’elgar _ ,” Solas told her, and she threaded her fingers through his and squeezed back. “And you are the Inquisitor.”

She nodded, blinking back tears of gratitude. “Yes,” she said finally. “I am the Inquisitor, and your friend, and your family, and apparently a fucking mage. I am all these things.” She drew in a deep breath and sighed. “And we have a town to save. Let’s go kill some Red Templars.” 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Jesper drawled. 

Varric. “Thank the Maker we’re done with this feelings nonsense. Bianca’s bored.” 

  
  



	25. Pride and Wisdom

“I feel sick, and I don’t think it’s the lyrium.” 

Evelyn could echo Varric’s sentiment easily. She watched the last of the captured villagers go, escorted by Jesper and Vess back to Sahrnia. “What in the Void’s name is lyrium?” she wondered aloud.

Solas looked at her sharply and she met his look. “Red lyrium is different, yes, but lyrium can’t just be some mineral that happens to have magic qualities. Not when they’re growing the bad kind  _ out of people _ . Nothing can be changed that far against its own nature.” She scrubbed her forehead with a gloved hand, certain she only succeeded in making her face filthier than it already was. “I mean, look at spirits and demons. They’re the same thing, but inverted and warped. I know, I’m being simplistic,” she added, holding up a hand to forestall the inevitable comment from Solas. “Still. This isn’t right. There’s too much we don’t understand.” 

He looked away from her with a tight expression. “Yes.” 

Evelyn imagined he hated not knowing things as well. She was about to ask him if he knew anything about lyrium in any old lore he’d come across, but they were interrupted by a string of loud curses from the wooden scaffolding. “Varric?” she called.

The dwarf peered over the edge with a grim expression. “You know, I’m getting real tired of being the one that finds all the really nasty secrets just lying around.” 

She closed her eyes briefly. “What is it?”

Only when Varric was beside her did she open her eyes again. He handed her a sheaf of letters, and Evelyn thumbed through them. She groaned. “I had feared this was the case,” she admitted. “I asked a few of the scouts to watch the Mayor and grab her if she runs. No one gets involved in this and just walks away unscathed.” 

Solas gave her a brief pat on the shoulder. “Well, at least we have shut down this dreadful operation,” he told her. “That is something.”

“It is,” she admitted, chewing on her lip. When Solas raised an eyebrow, she looked to Varric, who had a resigned expression on his face. 

“There’s still that demon,” he said.

“And a bunch of Templars up there.” Evelyn stretched. “I have to admit, this wasn’t much of a fight. Barely got my blood temperature up.”

“Well,” Solas drawled, “we wouldn’t want you to get cold, would we, Master Tethras?”

“Can’t think of anything worse, Chuckles. I may have to button my shirt if we don’t get moving.” 

Evelyn snorted. “Perish the thought.” 

…

They fought their way through easily enough. There were challenges, especially the damnable red-lyrium-infected giant, of all fucking things. But her companions seemed equally as angry over what they’d discovered at the quarry, and they fought with vicious efficiency. Solas was in fine form, maintaining a constant barrier over herself, Varric, and Jesper while ruthlessly dismantling opponents who got too close. 

“What is that...feeling?” she asked him, jogging up beside him as they looked down at the dead giant. “You do something that feels like...I don’t know...like when you snap fresh linens over the bed. Something pulls tight and then ripples outward.”

He looked at her appraisingly. “It’s a manipulation of the Veil’s energy. If you can sense it, we may be able to teach you the skills as well.” 

She blinked. “Oh. Right. Yes.” 

Vess walked over, repinning her hair from where it had fallen down in the fight. Evelyn noted with some internal amusement how Solas’s eyes darted over to follow the motions of Vess’s slender fingers. His gaze lingered for a moment on the dark curl at the nape of her neck before she swept it up. His expression showed nothing, so Evelyn pretended she hadn’t noticed when Solas turned his attention back to her. She did not think she’d imagined the longing in his eyes, however. 

“You haven’t even tapped magic, cousin,” Vess noted. 

Evelyn shrugged. “Fighting with blades is instinctual. Magic isn’t. I keep forgetting it’s there.” 

Solas walked ahead of them into the lower level of the keep. “That in itself is rather astonishing. A side effect of your mother’s spell, perhaps?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure I’m quite over the fact that my mother is a secret apostate yet.”

Vess snorted gently. “It’s the least surprising thing about this, honestly. Aunt Elinor has always been more than meets the eye. Did you know your pa was a Templar?”

“He went through some of the training, yes.”

“No,” Vess told her. Evelyn stopped in her tracks and looked at her cousin. Jesper did the same. “No, he was a proper Templar. Knight-Captain of Ostwick’s Circle. Owen told me. You didn’t know?”

Evelyn frowned, anger swelling in her belly. “No, I didn’t. Add that to the list of things they’ve lied to me about, then.” 

Solas touched Vess lightly on the shoulder. “This is perhaps not the time for this discussion, da’len.” 

“Ma serannas, hahren,” Vess murmured. “You’re right, of course. Evie, we’ll talk about it later, I promise. Right now, it’s maybe not for the best if you’re distracted and angry.” 

Dorian poked his head around a barrel. “Who’s casting with lightning? The ozone makes my nose twitch.” 

Evelyn realized with a start that it was her. Thin strands of purple lightning wove between her fingertips. She lifted a hand and studied it, flicking arcs between her fingers. All three mages stopped and watched her as she experimented with pulling the energy into a tight ball. Like a smoke bomb or one of Varric’s contraptions. She rolled it lightly along her fingers.

Vess and Solas exchanged long looks. Dorian seemed excited, but Evelyn wasn’t sure why. “I have,” the Tevinter mage drawled, attempting to sound casual, “so many questions.” 

“Let’s ask them later after we kill the bad guys, okay?” Varric grumbled, eyeballing the lightning in Evelyn’s palm. “I’m sure we can find a target for that, Stabs. Just don’t make a habit of it or I’ll have to come up with a new nickname.” 

Moments later, Jesper let out a curse as the door before them burst open to reveal a handful of Templars. Evelyn launched her lightning missile at the nearest one. It exploded in a shower of sparks and arced over to the armor of the knight beside him. After that one attack, however, it was simply easier to slip into the familiar rhythm of combat by blade. She found she could direct her steps and skip distance - fade-stepping, Solas called it - like before. 

It was all easier if she just didn’t think about it. She simply knew she could do it, and so she did. After a few more encounters, she began wondering about encasing her blades in lightning as she’d seen Solas do once. It never even occurred to her that it would be difficult to control. Control was never a fault of hers. She’d been taught how to control her body and mind since infancy, and those lessons had only been reinforced under Mirana’s tutelage. 

As she sank a lightning-encrusted knife into a Templar’s throat, it occurred to her that perhaps it was all intentional. 

Control. Measured ability. Recognizing her emotions and acknowledging them instead of fighting them. Some lessons she was far better at than others, but it was all of a piece, wasn’t it? The weight of responsibility, the need to act in a measured and considered fashion. It wasn’t only Annreth her father was teaching her about. 

Grace. Knowledge of her body. Mind rooted in the present. Her mother hadn’t only been preparing her for society, hadn’t only been teaching her strategies for coping with her uncle and grandmother. It wasn’t only the attempt to channel her curious energy. 

Her father had been a Templar. Her mother was a mage. They were preparing her for life as an apostate before they’d had to lock her magic away. Sending her to Mirana had enforced those lessons while she was hidden from herself, so that one day, when the spell finally failed, she would be prepared. 

She threw her blade and caught an enemy in the eye, then pulled it back using a strand of lightning to produce magnetic energy between the knife handle and her vambrace. Dorian’s head whipped around at the spell, but she ignored the mage’s sputtered shock. It was easy to do something if she didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to be able to do it. 

The downside, of course, was that she didn’t know her limits. She never had. When the lightning wouldn’t come when called, she ignored it, and pushed herself against her physical limits. When she unconsciously tried to fade-step, however, she tripped instead. Her knees were suddenly loose and unable to hold her weight. 

Solas swore in Elvhen and tossed his staff to Vess, who swung it in time with her own like it was a practiced move of theirs. She knocked out a nearby Templar then slit his throat with the staff blade before plummeting it down into a crack between stones. A barrier sprang up around Solas and Evelyn, defended by Vess while Solas retrieved a lyrium potion and chastised Evelyn roundly for her foolishness. 

The anchor crackled with green light and a sharp stab of pain. Evelyn gasped and sat upright, Solas holding her steady. “Something’s here,” she rasped out just as Vess hissed and swung her staff into defensive position. Varric, Dorian, and Jesper joined them, all with weapons at the ready. 

She and Solas followed their gazes to the figure that stood at the top of the stone steps in front of them. Evelyn blinked. At first glance it was a nondescript man, neither unsightly nor overtly handsome. Unassuming. But through the mark on her hand, she could feel an echo of energy that made her shiver. 

“Imshael, I take it,” she stated. 

“You have very violent friends, Inquisitor,” he said lightly, darting a look over the collected company. “Surely it need not come to bloodshed.”

The lyrium had finally taken hold and she felt her energy begin to collect itself, like water flowing into a well bucket. She blinked at the figure. “Your pals would suggest otherwise,” she told the demon, gesturing to where a few of the red-lyrium-studded Templar brutes gathered behind him.

Solas helped her stand. Imshael cocked his head, his glance sliding over the elf. “You seem familiar,” he said. “There’s a bit of Fade clung to you.”

“Only a bit?” Solas quipped. “I must be slipping.” 

Had she been less exhausted, Evelyn might have laughed. They were rubbing off on Solas, it seemed. Even Varric snorted a little. 

Imshael caught sight of Vessana. “Ah. Hello again, Singer.” 

“Hello again, Shithead.” 

“Now that’s not very nice.”

“I’m not a very nice person.” Vessana’s grip tightened on her staff. “Particularly when you murder my friends.” 

Imshael shrugged. “Now, were they really your friends when they didn’t even teach you what the song was for before having you sing it? I’ll give you a choice -”

Evelyn grunted. “No.”

The demon stopped and looked at her in surprise. “Just wait, Inquisi-”

It turned out, it was difficult to wheedle a deal with a knife in your throat. Evelyn watched the figure gurgle blood out of his mouth while sinking to his knees. She shook her wrist out. “Nope,” she repeated. “No deals.” 

The Templars roared as the energy from Imshael radiated out and began to coalesce into a new and more familiar demonic form. Evelyn rolled her shoulders back and rolled her head from side to side to pop her neck. “All right, team. Get ‘em.” 

All hell broke loose after that, but it was controlled chaos on their part. Jesper and Dorian worked in a beautiful concert together, as did Solas and Vess. For her part, Evelyn opened avenues for Varric to toss down traps and contraptions while he laid out cover fire for the rest of them. She didn’t even have to jump on this Pride demon’s back. Varric caught it in the eye, and when the demon shrank down into Rage, Vess thoroughly froze it with a well placed ice mine. They chipped away at Imshael, whittling down his energy until the very last of it began to lose its shape. 

Evelyn extended her left hand and pulled it effortlessly apart with a tiny rift that sealed itself with a rather satisfying pop. 

Dorian leaned on his staff and leveled a look at her. “I have so many questions.” 

…

  
  


“Did you read it?” Leliana asked, her voice tense.

Cullen rubbed his forehead. “Yes.”

Josephine sat by the war table, ensconced in a large and fur-lined dressing gown. Her loose hair hung over her shoulders, and she looked heartbroken. “I cannot imagine it,” she whispered. “To be so...lied to, by your own family.” 

The raven had come in the middle of the night to Leliana, with a second one following shortly after that went directly to Cullen’s office window. He’d been awake, chipping away at the final battle plans for Adamant. When the scouts moved quietly through the hold to summon the council together, he’d known it wasn’t simply a strange dream. 

Evelyn was a mage. 

On one hand, it explained so much of what he felt and observed around her. On the other it was nearly impossible to believe that she had gone so long without ever knowing, that such a manipulation of the mind was possible. The letter hadn’t specified, but Cullen didn’t need the words to know that it was blood magic, and powerful blood magic at that. Utilized against her by her own mother. 

Beneath his shock, another, darker emotion stirred. Guilt and horror and blame. It was because of Kirkwall. It seemed as though everything horrible that had happened over the past decade was all tied to that Blighted city and his failures. “The alternative,” he found himself saying, no less surprised at his words than the others, “was worse.”

“What could be worse?” Leliana wondered. “Ostwick Circle wasn’t-

“It would have been Kirkwall,” he corrected. “Her uncle would have made sure it was Kirkwall.” 

Cassandra shifted in the shadows next to the window. She didn’t say anything, but he was certain her thoughts mirrored his own. She blamed the Seekers for not overseeing the Templars as they should have, while he blamed himself for...well, for everything else. 

Leliana nodded briefly. “Yes, I see how that would prompt such a desperate act.” She sighed. “I know the Chantry has...strictures against the use of blood magic -”

“Because it’s evil,” Cassandra interrupted.

“No,” Leliana countered. “Power is power. It is intent and execution that matters.” 

“Funny choice of words,” the Seeker countered bitterly.

Cullen sighed. “Enough bickering, please. It doesn’t change what’s been done, and we’re certainly not going to go imprison the mother of the Herald of Andraste for apostasy and blood magic, now, are we?” When the other three processed the implications of such actions and nodded in agreement, he relented a little. “What happens with Lady Trevelyan is entirely in Evelyn’s hands, not ours. Whether she accepts what her mother did or does not is her choice alone, whatever we may think on the matter.” 

Leliana tilted her head. “That’s very generous of you, Commander. No,” she countered with a raised hand before Cullen could snap back a reply, “I meant that as no insult, I promise. I know how thorough and single-minded Templar training is, and I know that such training is not easy to overcome. It is truly impressive that you have been able to do so even a little, let alone to be so accepting of this situation.” 

“Yes, well,” he replied before thinking, “love will do that to you.” 

The three women broke into identical smiles and he groaned. “You will not...have a problem with this, then?” Josephine asked tentatively.

He frowned. “You thought I’d reject her knowing she has magic? She already had dangerous magic, regardless. This hardly changes anything. Well,” he amended, “it changes quite a bit, but it doesn’t change that. At least, so far as I’m concerned, I mean.” His frown deepened. Would it change how Evelyn saw him? How she saw and accepted his past? It was one thing to know of his former failings and fears and anger toward mages, but to know that from the perspective of being a mage? So very few mages he knew overlooked his past as a Templar easily, would it change…

“You are overthinking it, Cullen,” Cassandra cut into his thoughts. “I can tell by the scowl on your face. She loves you and she needs you. If you do not turn away from her, that will be enough.” 

He fervently hoped so. It would be several weeks yet before they met in the Western Approach, and then it would be the eve of battle. He would have to hope his letters would be enough to reassure her of his affections until then.

“In the meantime,” Leliana said, in a more gentle tone, “we should ensure that we are well prepared when news of this leaks out into the world. Josephine?”

…

  
  


The letter was simple, but it broke through a barrier of fear Evelyn hadn’t acknowledged, and she sobbed quietly in her tent with relief and other pent-up emotions. 

_ Evie, _

_ I love you. Nothing will change how I feel for you. I will never give you up, don’t you know? Never without a fight. I will always be here, in whatever capacity you need. _

_ Yours, _

_ Cullen _

…

  
  


The Exalted Plains rolled away before them, marred by the ruins of elven civilization and the scars of the ongoing civil war. Solas was solemn as they walked roads overshadowed by destroyed arches and aqueducts, but this morning he was especially withdrawn and quiet. 

Evelyn dropped her pace until she was beside him, letting a playfully bantering Dorian and Varric take the lead, while Vessana dozed in the supply cart. Jesper had left to rejoin the Hunters in the Emerald Graves. After they had stabilized the warfronts, he’d wanted to find out more about the Freemen of the Dales. He promised her a report after Adamant. That way, he told her, she’d have to survive the battle with the Wardens. 

She held on a thin, fragile hope that it would not come to bloodshed at Adamant, but she knew it was more than likely to be an ugly fight. 

Dorian glanced over his shoulder and scowled. “Keep casting.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes, but obliged, holding up her hand and conjuring a flame. She found fire more difficult to control, so Dorian had outlined a series of exercises and drilled her relentlessly. She balanced the flame, passing it from finger to finger and concentrating on not letting it grow. “What’s wrong?” she asked Solas.

He glanced at her and said nothing for a long moment, but relented when she simply walked alongside him, playing with fire. “I had a troubling dream,” he confessed. “I heard a cry of pain from one of my oldest friends who is being held captive against her will. I believe it was nearby.” 

She stopped, holding the flame in one hand while reaching out with her left hand to grab Solas’s arm. “Then we have to help. Solas! This is important!”

He stared at her in surprise and blinked. “I...I had not thought to ask your help.”

Evelyn frowned. “Whyever not?” She shook her right hand and clumsily extinguished the flame. “Who has your friend? How is she imprisoned?”

He studied her very carefully before responding. “Mages. And a summoning circle.”

“A spirit,” Evelyn deduced. She winced. “Could she be corrupted, if held against her will? We should hurry.” 

Solas took in a deep and shuddering breath. “I...I cannot thank you enough, Inquisitor.”

“Nonsense, Solas. I owe you everything, but beyond that you are my friend,” Evelyn told him, taking both his shoulders in her hands. “I couldn’t ever turn my back on your need, even if I didn’t understand it. I do, in this case, thanks to your knowledge, but even if I didn’t, I would still help you. You must know that. You are not alone.” 

“I...yes. Thank you.” 

“Come on, then. Boys!” she called to Varric and Dorian, who stopped and scowled at her. “Vess! Wake up! We’re going to save a spirit.” 

…

Evelyn watched the last specs of energy dissolve and float away. The pain and grief evident in the bend of Solas’s shoulders and the hanging of his head broke her heart. Vess jerked forward almost instinctively, her hand outstretched, but Evelyn stopped her. This was not a burden one could share.

She watched his fingers tighten in the dirt, a righteous anger spreading through his limbs and tensing every muscle. The air around him crackled with energy, and for the first time Evelyn wondered if she really understood just how powerful a mage Solas was. As he stood, he seemed less her dear friend and more like something out of a legend. Some arcane and elemental force of fury. 

“I heard what she said,” Vess said softly, her eyes wide with sadness. “She was right, you helped her.”

He didn’t seem to hear her, his eyes focused and narrowed on the three foolish mages. Evelyn could feel the fire building before he summoned it and she moved quickly to put herself between him and them. She held up her hands. “Solas.” 

“Never. Again.” He bit out the words with more pain than she could fathom, and she honestly did not know if she could keep him from killing them.

“Please,” she said simply. She did not raise a barrier, even though he’d taught her how. She did not summon her own fire or lightning, nor did she raise a blade. The choice had to be his. Somehow, she knew it. She felt it. If the choice was not his, she would lose him completely. 

The tension stretched out an eternity but lasted only a moment. Finally Solas relented, and the release of the energy he’d gathered felt like a cool breeze. He sagged a little and closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through a tight expression of anger and disappointment. “I need some time,” he said simply, and turned on his heel. Varric reached out and kept Vess from following him. 

“Thank you,” one of the mages stammered, and Evelyn rounded on them in a fury. 

“The book,” she bit out, with a hand extended.

The eldest mage stiffened. “Now, look-”

“No,” she hissed, “you look. You have one simple choice. Give me the book or I kill you myself.” 

The youngest mage, a girl, trembled at the words and took the book out of a pack. Wordlessly, she handed it over and Evelyn unceremoniously dumped it on the ground and set fire to it. She silenced Dorian’s half-vocalized protest with a glare. 

“You three will make your way to Skyhold, where you will present yourselves to Grand Enchanter Fiona as apprentices. No,” she snapped, holding up a hand to silence the eldest, “I don’t give a damn whatever rank you held in the Circle before now. Clearly it was not enough to keep you from absolute stupidity. You will go to Skyhold and you will get a proper magical education and you will follow Fiona’s instruction to the absolute last letter, working off your debt to me through her. You will never summon or bind a spirit again. If you do, your lives are forfeit. I will not make you Tranquil, I will simply kill you. If you do not do this, I will find you, and I will kill you anyway.” 

“What gives you the right-”

Evelyn held up her left hand and let the anchor crackle with energy. The three mages gasped. “When you get to Skyhold,” she said, “I would stay out of the library if I were you. I stopped him once, I will not do so again. Get out of my sight.”

She ran a hand through her hair, which had come loose while she tackled the Pride demon and tried to keep it from harming the others as they dismantled the summoning circle. Trying not to stab a demon was actually much more difficult than simply stabbing one, it turned out. The mages scampered away without a backwards glance in the direction of the last town, where they’d left an Inquisition encampment. 

Varric sat down with a huff, staring at the space the spirit had been. “Shit,” he said succinctly. He began to unload and clean Bianca. 

Vess wandered down to the water’s edge and took off her shoes, dipping bare feet into the chill water. After a few moments, she began singing a low and mournful song in Elvhen, as soft and sorrowful as an autumn breeze. It was carried on the air around them, resilient and haunting, and Evelyn wondered if Vessana hadn’t sent it on the breath of wind to carry the sound all the way to Solas, wherever he had wandered. She found herself hoping he heard the song.

Dorian looked pale and grim as he walked over to her and sat down on her boulder beside her. “It is humbling to the extreme,” he said softly, “to be faced with evidence of just how wrong you are about everything you thought you knew. I didn’t believe him at first.”

“About spirits?”

“Yes. I thought no one in the south could possibly have knowledge to match that of the greatest magical minds in Tevinter. How could you, hampered by the southern Chantry’s fear of magic and its constraints?”

“You discounted the elves.” 

“I did,” he admitted. “As so many others do. How arrogant of us. They were here before humans ever set foot in Thedas. They had built a great empire all without the help of us grubby little humans. And yet I have the audacity to believe I know more of magic then their descendants, when much of what I know was stolen from the ashes of their civilization.” 

“Humility isn’t a good look on you, Dorian.”

“No, it quite clashes with my complexion.” He tilted his head and studied her. “How is it you believed him so readily? I know you have criticisms of the Chantry, but you grew up with so many faithful around you.”

She considered the question. “I suppose...I wanted to believe him. I’ve always been obnoxiously curious about the world. When I was child, I longed for adventure. I always felt the pull of something...more...out there. That must have been magic, I guess. That feeling of always wanting to pull on the world like it was a curtain so I could see what was really underneath. When Solas speaks of what he knows, when he talks of the Fade and of spirits and magic and the past...it’s like getting to see the real world I always thought was there, beyond what everyone else said it was.” 

“That is unfairly poetic,” Dorian lamented. “The way you speak of Solas, I’m almost surprised it’s Cullen and not he that you’re head over heels for.” 

She smiled. “I have a great affection for Solas, but it’s not romantic. He’s familiar, like Owen is to me. Like an appendage I had been missing, and now I’m whole again. Cullen is...well, aside from being the best lover I’ve ever had, he’s the fire in my heart.” 

Dorian made a disgusted noise. “Seriously, with the poetry. That’s supposed to be Tevinter’s purview, you dirty Marcher.” 

Evelyn stood and stretched. “Come on, the lot of you,” she called. “Let’s make camp. Solas knows how to find us when he wants to. He needs time alone to grieve, but he will return to us.”

“You sound confident, Stabs.”

“I am,” she replied. “He’ll be back. If only to bite my head off for letting those three go.” 

The group wandered back toward the road with Evelyn at the rear. She paused and knelt by the summoning circle, placing her left hand within its former boundary. The anchor fizzed a little with energy, and she closed her eyes, letting a few tears flow for the sadness of what she’d witnessed. The world was so much wider than she’d ever thought, and there was so much still to learn. The passing of a spirit of wisdom was something to truly mourn, both for the knowledge lost with her, and for the absence of such a gentle life. 

She stood, sighing as a soft breeze dried her tears. Wisdom, the opposite of Pride. 

Evelyn closed her eyes against an uneasiness that shifted under her skin. Before she’d left Skyhold, one of the reports had come in from the academics they had researching those odd keystone shards. They’d located rumors of a temple out past the Western Approach somehow connected, borne out by Leliana’s scouts sighting Venatori in the vicinity. 

According to one of the researchers, the temple was reputedly named Solasan in ancient Elvhen. As close as they could translate the tricky language, it meant something like a ‘place of pride’ or a ‘prideful bastion’. 

Solas meant ‘pride’. The wisest person she’d ever met, with a name that meant pride. 

Evelyn opened her eyes and exhaled, turning to join the others. It could mean nothing, after all. Or it could mean something, but what it could mean was beyond her knowledge at the moment. All she knew for certain was that she trusted Solas, and he was her friend. Whatever else he hid from her, it would not change those two fundamental facts. 

And he was hiding a great deal.

  
  



	26. The Right Thing

It was three days before Solas caught up to them, slipping silently into their camp as though he’d never left. Dorian opened his mouth to comment, but Varric stepped firmly on his foot and the Tevinter mage thankfully took the hint. Vess handed Solas a bowl of stew silently but with a searching look. He met her gaze and she nodded to herself, satisfied with whatever she found in his face. 

Evelyn simply picked up her conversation with Varric while she played with a few shards of ice Dorian had her conjure. She still hadn’t really come to terms with having magic. It still seemed as though it was yet another side effect of the anchor, even if that wasn’t the truth. It was easier to think of it that way. She couldn’t let herself dwell too long on the truth, not yet. Too many dangerous emotions lurked in a dark swell within her heart. 

One by one they finished their meal over quiet conversation and left the fireside for their tents until only Evelyn and Solas remained. She watched the sparks from the fire float upward until they gutted out and became the stars overhead. Wordlessly, she shifted her seat until she was next to Solas. He sat stiffly for a moment, then relaxed, leaning against her side as she leaned against his. 

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“I found a quiet place where I could sleep,” he replied, head tilted back to study the stars as well. “I visited the place in the Fade where I would often find my friend and walked the paths of memory we explored together.” 

What a beautiful way to grieve for someone, she thought. “What happens? When a spirit dies, I mean.” 

“The energy returns to the Fade. One day, with sufficient pull and influence, something similar might reform.” 

Evelyn looked down at the ice shard and tossed it beneath a nearby pine tree. “Is your friend not truly dead then?”

“Yes and no,” he answered. “Like many things about the Fade, it is complex. The energy remains, but even if another spirit of Wisdom were to form, it would not have the same memories or the same personality. It would not be the friend I knew.” 

“I am sorry for the loss of her. To you, and to the world.” 

“Thank you,” he replied softly. “I had not expected such sympathy from anyone. I did not think any of you could understand. Yet you do. All of you do,” he added, more to himself than to her. 

Evelyn leaned her head on his shoulder, breathing in the comforting familiar woodsy scent of him. “It doesn’t take a great well of understanding to see a friend in pain,” she told him. “Even if Varric and Dorian don’t understand with as much depth as Vess or I do, they care about you. Even if you don’t agree at times, they would do whatever they could to ease your pain or to help you.” She sat upright with a sigh. “It’s not easy to let others in. Not when there’s so much that hurts.”

“No,” he agreed hoarsely, “it is not.” After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. “Get some rest, lethallan. You will wear yourself out with those lessons of Dorian’s.” 

She yawned. “I’m supposed to be the one that gives orders, but in this case I’ll let it slide. Good night, Solas.” She stood and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you came back.”

He offered her a rare smile. “Did you doubt it?”

Evelyn smiled in return. “Not for a moment.” On impulse, she pressed a chaste kiss to the top of his bare head, earning a soft chuckle. She left him contemplating the embers of the dying campfire and returned to her tent. 

After some tossing and turning, she decided it was too nice a night to feel so confined and moved her bedroll outside. She had not meant to overhear the whispered conversation beyond the halo of firelight, truly she hadn’t. She stayed as still as possible and kept her breathing even so as not to disturb them.

“I only wish I could help,” came Vessana’s saddened whisper.

A shift of fabric as one of them moved. “You already have.” Evelyn had never heard such hesitant vulnerability in Solas’s voice before. “I heard your song.” 

A soft throat clearing. “I had hoped you would. I know my knowledge isn’t perfect, but…”

“That was perfect. Completely so.” Slow sighing. “I am grateful. Even within your own grief, you are generous enough to share mine. What Imshael said to you-”

“Oh, don’t, I beg you. I don’t want to think on that horror any longer. I have told you all I care to remember of that time.” 

“You are very brave, Vessana.” 

“No, I am a coward. Evie’s the brave one.” 

Solas’s gentle chuckle floated past her ears. “She has a rare courage, your cousin. But you are no less strong for it. Your heart is gentle, even if you guard it carefully.”

There was a long pause. “I am not the only one with a carefully guarded heart.” 

Another shift of fabric. “No,” came Solas’s surprising admission. “You are not.” 

Evelyn bit her lip in embarrassment as the sound that came next could only be from a shocking and rather passionate kiss. Not that she wasn’t happy for them, but this was really something that should be private and here she was accidentally eavesdropping like a pervert. At that thought, she had to stifle a laugh. 

Equally embarrassing was how it made her ache for Cullen and the warm safety of his arms. How little time it had taken for her to become so completely dependent on his love, like a drunkard. Once she’d begun drinking from that cup, it was impossible to put down. In all the mess of an increasingly complex life, he was the only thing that was simple. That they were meant to be with each other was the only thing that made absolute sense: a knowledge as certain as the sky being blue or needing air to breathe. 

Dried leaves and twigs snapped under soft footfalls that led away from camp and faded into silence, along with the murmur of their voices. Evelyn closed her eyes against the pain of both Cullen’s absence, and the more uncertain fear that whatever was developing between her cousin and Solas would only end in heartbreak. Solas was a man who was used to being alone, and Vess...she needed others, needed community. For so long, she’d never fit one place or the other, but she’d been slowly opening up to them: this ragged band of misfits Evelyn had somehow collected. 

If Solas could let her in, Evelyn thought sadly, they would be so good together, he and Vessana. For their sakes, she hoped fervently that he could. But oh, how she doubted it.

Maker, she missed Cullen. 

…

The firelight had flickered low, barely more than embers. The moon was dark, and the sky was a tapestry of starlight. Evelyn traced the shapes of a few constellations she recognized, listening to the familiar, comforting hum of her mother’s voice as she sang a soothing lullaby. 

She looked down at the ring of the campfire, and at the small, hunched form of her ten year old self in her father’s arms.

Her mother sat opposite the fire, her face etched in sadness. 

Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the tableau. She reached out, unsure what she was reaching for until her fingers caught a familiar hand. Cullen closed his grip around hers. “Is this a dream?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pull you in. I...I can let you go.”

He moved beside her and wrapped his arms around her. “No, don’t, please.” He enveloped her in a warm embrace, her back pressed to his chest and his arms tight around her midsection. “You’re upset,” he said simply.

“Very.” Her voice caught and fractured. “Why did they do this to me?”

His breath was soft on the side of her face. “Because they loved you more than anything, and they couldn’t bear to lose you, I think.” He paused. “Is this a memory, like Solas talks about?”

Evelyn watched her parents as her father gently laid her sleeping form down, and her mother took out a knife. “I think so. I’ve never sought one out before, but I need to know.” The vision wavered. “But I’m frightened,” she admitted in a thin voice as tears struggled their way toward the surface.

The scent of elderflower and oakmoss was strong and steadying. Cullen stroked her side with his hand. “Don’t be. I am here with you. No matter what comes next, I am here.”

“It’s the only way,” Will Trevelyan spoke in a thick voice as they watched. “What your mother did to you to protect you.”

Elinor was crying. “I know, but…”

“It won’t be for long, we just have to keep her out of the Circle. Alric will lose interest eventually.” He shifted. “I feel the same about blood magic as you, but it’s a tool. You said so yourself. What matters is the intent.” 

Her mother huffed a strangled, humorless laugh through her tears. “Intent matters as much as a pile of nug shit, Will. She won’t remember agreeing. She’ll hate us.” 

“Then let her hate us,” her father insisted. “But she’ll be safe. That’s all that matters. I will not allow our child to be made Tranquil, Elinor, and that’s what will happen. No matter if it’s Kirkwall or Ostwick, no Circle is immune from corruption in the Templar ranks. Someone will be bribed to find a reason to silence her like they silenced Nora.” 

Elinor winced and looked away from him. “You don’t have to remind me what happened to my mother, Will. We have daily proof.” 

Evelyn gasped. “Grandmother was made Tranquil?”

Cullen stiffened behind her. “Your grandmother was a Circle mage?”

She shook her head. “I...no. Well, I guess so, but no one ever said...She’s just a sick old lady we visit and take care of. Mama said it was an accident in her youth that robbed her of sense.” 

“If she was made Tranquil, she’d still be in the Circle,” Cullen commented. “Would she not?”

Evelyn shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” 

He kissed her cheek. “I’m here,” he reminded her. 

Beyond them around the campfire, her parents were still talking softly. Evelyn watched as her ten year old self stirred and cried out, the flames in the fire flaring in response to her distress. Her father reached out and pressed a finger to her forehead, murmuring silently and she went still, the fire blanching out. Evelyn frowned. “What…”

“He Silenced you,” Cullen answered. “Aidan said your father had Templar training, but I didn’t realize he must have taken vows. You can only Silence with lyrium.” 

“Vess told me he was Knight-Captain of Ostwick Circle before I was born,” Evelyn told him. “Owen found out and told her.” 

He rubbed her side. “I’ll ask your cousin what else he knows that he hasn’t told you.” 

She nodded in thanks as her younger self stirred and sat upright. “Is it time?” her higher, lighter voice asked. 

“Aye, Evie,” her father said. “It’s time.” 

Even as a child, Evelyn recognized the stubborn tilt to her own jaw. “Good,” the child answered. “I won’t go to the Circle. I won’t leave Owen.” Adult Evelyn winced, knowing that in three years time that choice would be made for her, and she would indeed have to leave Owen to the face the Circle alone. “I won’t leave Annreth. He can’t make me.” 

Will rubbed his face. “Evie, sweetheart…”

“I’m going to become a Grey Warden,” child Evelyn said with the certainty that only the very young could conjure. “I am going to fight every last Darkspawn.” 

Will leveled a look at his wife, who had paled. “I’m not losing our child to the Wardens,” he said firmly. “Elinor.”

Evelyn’s mother shook her head. “No, Will, you are already asking too much of me. I cannot take a memory she’s not willing to relinquish.”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” child Evelyn cried. “Let’s just get this over with already.” She sniffled. “I want to go home.” 

Elinor took in a deep, shuddering breath as Cullen and Evelyn watched silently. She took her daughter in her arms and murmured words they could not hear into her hair. But Evelyn remembered, and her mother’s voice floated around them. 

_Only you can ever hide from yourself. Only you can ever remember who you are. And only you can ever determine who you will be._ _Forget now, but one day you will remember when you need to the most. Only you can determine that. Only you can call your power. Only you will decide what you do with it, how it does or does not define you. It is you, and you are always in control of yourself. No one else is. Only you._

_ Now, forget. _

_ Forget. _

_ Remember yourself. _

_ Come back to yourself when you are called with your own voice, and not before. _

The metallic tang of blood filled the air as her mother pricked her finger with her knife, then handed it to her daughter, who did likewise. Together their blood mingled in the air, borne on currents of magic that swirled the streams of red together in a knot. The knot settled on the child’s forehead, branding it in a livid red that faded into nothing on her skin. Wordlessly, the child fell unconscious in her mother’s arms. 

“It is done,” Elinor pronounced hoarsely, “may she forgive us.”

Will Trevelyan stood and rounded the campfire to where his wife and child sat, and wrapped himself protectively around both of them. “My heart, my soul,” he told them in a soft voice as the memory flickered and faded. 

A faint outline of a wraith-like spirit floated against the field of stars. “The knowledge hurts,” the spirit spoke in a soft voice, “but it will help you. He said it would help, the one who calls himself Cole.” 

Evelyn blinked against tears as Cullen held her. She nodded. “Yes,” she managed, “please, tell him...yes, it helps. Tell him thank you.” 

“I cannot,” the spirit said sadly. “He is too far away.” 

“I can,” Cullen assured her. “I will. Oh, love,” he murmured, and turned her around, pulling her to him, “I’m so sorry. I know it hurts, but they did the right thing.” 

“I don’t know that I would believe anyone else if they told me that,” Evelyn said between sobs against his chest, “but I believe you.” 

They spent the rest of the dream simply holding each other by the dream fire, under a sky of dream-like stars, until Cullen began to fade. “Don’t go,” she murmured against his shoulder. 

He kissed her gently. “I must. I am being woken by a rather loud encampment. I am on my way to Adamant. I will see you soon, love.” 

She looked at him, filling her eyes with one last look at his face. “I’m sorry for pulling you into this.”

He smiled. “I spent so long fearing magic that I never thought how bloody useful it is. Never apologize for needing me, Evelyn. You have given me everything I could have dreamed of, and I would give you no less. If I can see you, if I can hold you in my arms, even in just dreams, then it is worth every ounce of magic in the world. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said softly as light broke across the sky and she woke. 

…

“You weren’t joking about how miserable it is out here,” Dorian grumbled. Varric grunted in agreement, slathering his skin with the sun salve while Solas and Vessana did the same. 

Evelyn had a little higher tolerance for sun, though her skin wasn’t as loving of the rays as Dorian’s fetchingly nut brown complexion. Still, after having the edges of her ears singe the last time they were out this way, she’d learned her lesson and practically bathed in sun salve. 

Hawke had caught up with them and now sat next to Varric, cheerfully offering to lower him into a barrel of the stuff. “Pity the Seeker is not with us,” Solas commented drily, and a shit-eating grin broke out across Hawke’s face at Varric’s annoyed sputter.

Evelyn wandered away from the friendly banter that broke out over Varric’s loud protesting. She fished around in a satchel before locating a spyglass, and settled down onto a nearby rock to examine what had caught her attention. Beyond the canyon spread a glistening field of Blighted land. She looked out at it, noting where it spread and where it did not, her mind’s eye juxtaposing the land with the quarry and paths outside Sahrnia. 

She was grasping at straws, she knew, but there was something there...some pattern she wasn’t seeing. She collapsed the spyglass and chewed on her bottom lip. It was maddening how close she felt to an answer, and yet how far away she truly was from what had to be the truth beneath it all. 

Corypheus was a Darkspawn - a Blighted creature. There was a magic nature to the Blight, in how the Archdemons could control the horde, how they communicated wordlessly to each other like bees in a hive. But Corypheus was also a mage, a powerful one. Or had been before his corruption, but he was not like other Darkspawn of human descent. He maintained his sense of self, his identity, and his power. Augmented by whatever the Blight had to offer in magic, for that was part of how he influenced the minds of Grey Wardens, according to Hawke and Warden Stroud. And Corypheus held an ancient Elvhen source of power in that orb he carried. 

A foci for ancient magics. Whose ancient magic, she wondered? And what did it all have in common that Corypheus was able to draw power from Blight, from red lyrium, from his own magic, and from an ancient elven artifact? Did it have anything in common at all? 

When she was young, she went to the coast with her father once and he took her swimming in one of his favorite places on the Waking Sea: an estuary where fresh river water met the salt of the sea. One could swim between them, finding the boundary where the lighter fresh water lay atop the salt-laden seawater. It was like crossing between two worlds, her father said. 

Her magic and the magic of the anchor - they were like that. Two sources of power that she could tap and wield, but different. They did not mix, not readily. Like that estuary, there was a very slow absorption and blending of power, but they did not flood together. Surely it was the same with Corypheus’s various sources of magic. 

A horn sounded in the distance, signalling an approaching party to the fort. Evelyn stood and peered over the edge of the walls as Captain Rylen stood beside her. “Ah, it’s the Commander’s party,” he said. 

Despite herself, she managed to keep her heart leaping under control, and her voice even. “Who’s that beside him?”

Rylen frowned. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Don’t believe I’d forget an elf like that.” 

Beside Cullen, astride a roan colored mount was certainly the most unforgettable elf she’d ever seen. Astonishingly handsome, with warm coffee skin and a shock of pure white hair swept back from his face, he rode with a grace so easy it must have been unconscious. What was most remarkable, however, were the light-colored swirls of markings evident on his face, his uncovered arms, and bare feet. They were like vallaslin, but different from any she’d ever seen. 

Despite the heat, he wore layers of lithe and supple armor, almost better suited to one who wielded light blades as she did than the heavy blade strapped across his saddle. The only relief of color to his dark clothing was a deep red cloth tied in a complicated knot around his wrist and forearm. 

Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. “Varric?” she called. “What was your Tevinter elf friend’s name again?”

“Fenris,” he replied. “Why?”

Hawke shot to her feet, swearing robustly. She approached the edge of the wall and looked down, her face pale as the elf in the saddle looked up from his conversation with Cullen. They were close enough to the gate that she could see his eyes go wide in recognition, and fury settle over his face. Hawke swallowed and backed away from the wall. Without even a backward glance she darted toward the stairs that led to the fort’s courtyard. 

Evelyn caught Varric’s eye and smiled. “Someone’s in trouble.” 

…

Cullen might have been distracted by the shouting match taking place between Fenris and Hawke had his arms not been immediately filled with the weight of the Inquisitor as she launched herself at him. He caught her and held her close for a moment, filling his nostrils with her familiar scent of lavender and vanilla. 

Fenris and Hawke could shout as much as they liked, as long as he had Evelyn in his arms. Damn whatever his men thought, he leaned down and kissed her soundly. Gossip spread no matter what they did, so there was no sense in wasting time trying to hide anything. 

She pulled away, grinning and straightening her tunic. “Ahem,” she cleared her throat, “Commander, welcome. I trust everything is in place?” Her dancing eyes underlined her serious tone, and he smirked. 

“As well as we could hope for, Inquisitor,” he answered. “Though I don’t suppose our attempts at negotiating a peaceful resolution have been successful?”

Evelyn grimaced. “No. Our scouts have not been able to make lasting contact with any of the Warden warriors that are still alive, and none have been able to make it through to Commander Clarel. None that have been able to report back, at least.” She sighed. “I’m afraid I opted to cut our losses there.” 

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Wise move,” he agreed. “All right,” he called to his men, “let’s get unloaded and get set up. Council in an hour. I want the supply line worked out before the siege.” 

Maker, he wanted more time with Evelyn, but neither of them could be so selfish. She touched his arm briefly in understanding. “Get some water and food, and I’ll meet you in the chamber we’ve set aside. I have some intelligence to add.” 

“Inquisitor,” he acknowledged, squeezing her hand briefly before she turned to summon up a handful of her battle companions. An absence of sound caught his attention, and he turned to find both Hawke and Fenris watching him with matching amused expressions. He exhaled in exasperation. “Don’t you two have each other to skin or something?”

“Hawke has graciously accepted how in the wrong she is-”

“-I have not-”

“-and so our situation is resolved,” Fenris drawled. “Yours is more interesting for the moment.” 

Cullen eyeballed the pair. “Will you be joining us in battle tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Hawke answered in the same instant that Fenris responded with a firm “No.”

They glared at each other, and Cullen suppressed a smirk. “Right then,” he said, backing away, “I’ll leave you two to your...resolution.” 

…

“It’s going to be ugly,” he told her that night as she nestled against his shoulder. Both of them were far too wrapped up in the fog of exhaustion and battle-nerves for much more than a few traded kisses. She conjured a piece of ice and wrapped her handkerchief around it, and he leaned forward to let her wrap it around his neck, with the ice pressed to the base of his skull. It did wonders to ease the headache and nausea. 

Only belatedly did he realize it was the first time he’d seen her cast. She seemed to realize it as well and watched him carefully. He kissed the tip of her nose by way of answer and she relaxed back against him. “We’re going to have to face it at some point,” she murmured. “The fact that I have magic. We can’t ignore it. I guess I have a personal stake in what becomes of mages and the Circle now.” 

“Whatever we face, we’ll do together,” he told her, pressing another kiss to the top of her head. “You promised me that much.” 

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Whether it’s your magic or whatever fresh hell awaits us in the morning, you won’t face it alone, Evie.”

She yawned widely. “Thank you,” she murmured into his chest, her breathing settling into a heavy, familiar rhythm. Cullen smiled, and drew the blanket around her shoulders.

…

  
  


Fresh hell was indeed the way to describe it. They laid their siege engines in the dead of night and in the early hours before dawn began pelting the walls of Adamant Fortress. Blackwall watched with a grim expression, mirroring her own thoughts. She had promised him they would save as many Wardens as they could, as many as would surrender, but he was already betraying his vows to the Order. He insisted he wasn’t, that the vow was to protect the world from the Blight, and this wasn’t the way to do it, that the Order had been misled, but she knew it weighed heavily on his shoulders. 

Even Solas, whose distaste for the Wardens was well known, took no pleasure in the success of their assault. He used his magic defensively only to protect the soldiers with the battering ram, opting not to deflect magic upward at the assailants on the walls as Vivienne and Dorian did. 

Unless it was one of the Warden mages. Those he dispatched quickly and with ruthless efficiency. 

Vessana had kept back in the healer’s tents with Owen, her magic at far better use there. Cole flitted between soldiers at the front of the attack and the area where Owen triaged the wounded. With his unique abilities, she had asked him to do this task, as he would be able to hear those who needed help and defend them as they got to safety. 

Sera was off with Scout Harding’s advance team, ready to cut a path through the gate when it opened along with the Iron Bull and his Chargers. Beside Evelyn stood Cassandra, Hawke, Fenris, Warden Stroud, and Varric. Solas would join them as soon as the gate was down, another reason for his judicious use of mana. 

Hawke shifted her weight. “The only other real battle I’ve been in was Ostagar,” she commented. “This is nothing like that.” 

“Once we’re inside, I would think it would be more like Kirkwall when the Qunari raided,” Evelyn told her. “All chaos we’ll have to get through in order to find Clarel and get this madness to stop.” 

“Well, chaos is something I know how to deal with, at least.” Hawke threw a half-hearted glare over her shoulder at Fenris when he snorted delicately. “Have you seen battle before?” she asked Evelyn.

“Not like this,” Evelyn admitted. “Which is why I’m not in charge of the battle plan.” 

“He’s come a long way since Kirkwall,” Fenris commented. 

“Who, Curly?” Varric asked. “Yeah, he sure has. Look at him down there like King Calenhad. You know they call him the Lion of Ferelden?”

Hawke snickered and even Evelyn grinned. “He hates that nickname.” 

“Of course he does,” Hawke drawled, “lions are Orlesian.” 

Cullen did indeed resemble some sort of knight hero out of Fereldan legend, presenting a commanding figure on horseback in full plate. Though his armor was simple and utilitarian, his helm sat tied to his saddle and eyes found his golden head on the battlefield as though drawn by magnets. He was a natural general, and she felt a swell of pride and love that swept over her even before the darkness that awaited them beyond the fortress walls. 

Truly his ingenuity was something to behold. Their mage allies had labored for weeks to produce armor enchantments that kept their soldiers cool in the desert heat, allowing them an edge over the largely Orlesian Grey Wardens. By attacking at dawn when they would not have been expected until nightfall, they maintained the advantage. Cullen had Dagna working with Adan’s alchemists to produce projectiles specifically calculated to dissolve the ancient walls of Adamant Fortress. Battlemages alongside Dorian and Vivienne worked to unravel the wards and enchantments as mundane soldiers operated the trebuchets and sappers dug under the walls. 

Only a short time had passed between now and the day the bedraggled rebel mages had arrived in Haven, and now they fought and bled alongside Templars and regular soldiers from all walks of life. She saw one enchanter throw a hasty barrier around Captain Lysette, the skeptical Orlesian Templar whose failure to save more than a handful of her fellows from Therinfal Redoubt ate at her. Lysette, who had loudly protested the joining of the mages as free allies, only paused to nod her thanks to the enchanter before calling out a warning to another mage and swinging her sword against a rage demon. 

Captain Rylen fought back to back with another mage, a young woman with a face of fierce concentration who slung devastating fire and ice spells while Rylen worked to dismantle silenced Warden mages. Mages and demons were spilling out as the gates came crashing down. 

Cullen looked back at her and Evelyn nodded. That was their signal. “Hawke,” she called, “Fenris, time to go to work. Cassandra, you’ve got the rear with Varric and Solas.” 

She didn’t bother to glance behind her to see if Hawke and Fenris were following. They were both experienced fighters and it was simple as breathing to fall into rhythm. Fenris darted past her to take point, those odd lyrium-imbued tattoos granting him astonishing quickness and strength. He swung his longblade with deadly grace and cut open a path like a warm knife through butter. Hawke was a perfect mirror to him, the two having fought so long by each other’s side that they knew how to fit together so no weakness showed. 

Evelyn was able to utilize the distraction they created to scout out an advanced path, her tossed blades signaling to Fenris where to strike next. He halted abruptly as they came across a group of four warriors who had tossed down their weapons. He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she nodded to him. He and Hawke stepped aside and let her pass. 

“Inquisitor,” one of the Wardens spoke, “we didn’t want this.” 

Evelyn looked out at them from behind the helm Dagna had crafted for her. Imposing draconic wings flared back from the eye slit, worked into the metal. Normally she wouldn’t have fought with a helmet or even the light pieces of plate she wore over the black and red leathers, but Dagna had crafted them so perfectly that no movement was hampered or vision impaired. Her short blades were another of Dagna’s creations, with hilts that were magically attracted to her vambraces so they returned to her hand with the slightest pull of her mana. Dorian’s suggestion, as it happened. He had written to the arcanist after that battle at Suledin Keep. 

“Your commitment to duty would be admirable were it not so blindly foolish,” she told them sternly. “There is always another way, but you cannot see beyond your fear.” 

Warden Stroud shifted tensely beside her as the others joined them. Evelyn could practically feel Solas’s fury radiating at her back. She glanced at him, but only lifted an eyebrow. The decision was hers, of course. 

You’ll regret that, she told him without the need for words. By now, he was adept at reading her expressions. He shrugged almost imperceptibly. 

She walked up to them and lifted her marked hand, letting it flare slightly. The magic she conjured was not the anchor’s, but they had no way of knowing that. A quick flare of fire burnt the Inquisition’s symbol into their breastplates. The warriors all blinked in surprise. 

As did Hawke. Fenris shot Evelyn a distrustful look. Oh, right, he had a problem with mages. Well, that was too bad. 

“Find Commander Cullen and Warden Blackwall in the courtyard. Bring as many of your brothers as you can convince to swear truce. The mages are corrupted by the Blight and blood magic; you will not be able to turn them. I’m sorry. Where is the Warden Commander?”

She gestured for Cassandra and Warden Stroud to scout ahead in the direction the warriors indicated. Solas followed them without the need for her to ask. “Hawke, Fenris,” she said, turning to them. “I need someone to follow the warriors. If they break truce, kill them. If they keep their word, help them. Cullen needs those battlements clear.” 

“I’ll go, stay with the Inquisitor,” Fenris said. 

“Will you-”

“I’ll be fine,” he told Hawke before a brief kiss. “Take care of yourself. Let’s stop this madness.” 

Hawke watched him go. “He thinks I’ll be safer with you.” 

Varric snorted. “Hawke, Stabby’s the only one I know who managed to get into  _ more _ trouble than you do.” 

Evelyn took off at a clip and didn’t bother replying. Varric wasn’t wrong. She only hoped-

The three of them skidded to a halt as a horribly familiar shriek rent the air. “Ah, hell,” Varric spat, pulling a stunned Hawke up against the battlement wall as a large shadow passed overhead. 

Evelyn ignored the dragon and darted around the spray of crackling red fire, tossing up the barrier Solas had shown her over Hawke and Varric. She didn’t bother protecting herself; Dagna had done most of that work for her. She found Solas, wearing a strained expression as he balanced barriers over Stroud and Cassandra strong enough to deflect the electric whips of a Pride demon. “Clarel’s ahead!” he called and Evelyn raced past, pausing only long enough to get him backup vials of lyrium from her own stash. “She took off after Erimond when Stroud got him to confess working for Corypheus. Erimond summoned the dragon.” 

“That greasy little shit,” Evelyn spat. “Thanks!” 

“We’ll catch up!” he called after her. 

She found the two mages batting spells at each other while the dragon raged overhead. Clarel was shouting at Erimond for destroying the Grey Warden order, her voice hoarse and ragged with her own guilt. “Clarel!” Evelyn called. “We can still stop this before it’s too late!”

The Warden Commander turned to look at her. “Inquisitor…”

“The Order is not destroyed, there is still time.” Evelyn removed her helm so Clarel could see her face clearly. “I have no quarrel with the Wardens, I do not want this battle any more than you do. Work with me, and we can free the mages from Corypheus’s grip.”

So focused was she on the Warden Commander’s wavering expression that both of them failed to note the swooping shadow of the dragon before it was too late. It swept down with a great cry and snatched Clarel up in its jaws. “NO!” Evelyn cried.

Erimond crowed with triumph and Evelyn rounded on him a fury. It took naught by a thought and she had fade-stepped to his side with a knife between his ribs. He looked at her in shock as the blood flowed hot and wet over her hands. She drove the blade in deeper and he smiled. “My...reward...awaits…” Then it was over, the Venatori mage reduced to a bloody corpse at her feet. 

Evelyn wiped her blade and hand clean on his robes, then picked up his staff and snapped it clean in half. 

The others caught up to her. Varric looked impressed, Cassandra grim. Hawke and Stroud searched for Clarel while Solas met Evelyn’s furious eyes and sighed in sympathy. He bent to retrieve her helm, but she walked passed him, spotting the dragon on the parapet opposite. The Warden Commander was still between its horrendous teeth. 

“Lethallan…” Solas warned, but she ignored him, gathering all her helpless anger into a tight, raging ball of lightning. It grew between her fingers and Hawke swore, stepping back. 

It wasn’t enough. She knew it. Not against that creature. 

Evelyn pulled, and a thin line of green came free from her left hand, entwining in the lightning.

“Evelyn,” Solas gasped, “no-”

The globe of energy swirled larger and more virulent. The dragon turned to her, eyes caught by the malevolent purple and green glow. 

She’d wanted to be a Warden. When her life ended, it was the only future she could see that was any use. Fight the Darkspawn. End the menace of the Blight. The arrogant, angry dream of a child who thought she had nothing left to lose. 

Was it the Order, Clarel, Corpyheus, or herself she most furious with? She couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. She let the energy go and it slammed into the side of the dragon. It roared and dropped Clarel. 

Evelyn raced to the Warden Commander’s side and took her bloody hand, pressing what was left of her staff into the pale flesh. As Avvar did with the weapons of their fallen warriors. 

Clarel’s pale eyes found hers, full of grief and sadness and pain. Around them the nose of battle fell away, the warning cries of her companions falling unheard. “In war,” she told Clarel, victory.” 

The dragon was above them, its shadow shrinking as it hovered closer. She could smell its breath.

“In peace,” Clarel gasped, “vigilance. In death-”

It roared and Evelyn could feel the heat of its fire on her face. Clarel pulled her mana through what was left of her staff’s focus, raising it weakly with Evelyn’s help. She pushed what was left of her own power through. 

“Sacrifice,” Evelyn finished, and together they loosed a massive blast of power that sent the dragon skittering over the wall. 

A roaring sound filled her ears as the dragon scratched and scrambled for purchase on walls already weakened by siege weapons. 

Cassandra was shouting her name, Hawke was calling for Varric and the world was falling away. 

She was falling. The stone had broken away, tumbling with herself and Clarel’s lifeless body. It fell faster than she did, and a strange sensation of floating took hold as the stone separated from her kneeling body. 

A hum of Solas’s magic swept over but it was too little. They were falling so far, a barrier couldn’t hold them. The well of her own power was empty, echoing painfully through her bones. 

Evelyn reached out and took hold of the other, the green tendrils of power that spun out from the mark on her left hand. She couldn’t say what she was reaching for...something...anything...a way out.

As death raced for her, she did not see the ground, only Cullen’s face. His warm eyes, his soft smile. The warmth of his embrace and the safety found within the circle of his arms. The sound of his voice when he cried out in passion. The feeling of wholeness and completion only found together in the most intimate space. 

_ Never without a fight _ .

Fury swelled within her again and she reached out with everything in her being and pulled on that power, screaming in agony as it ripped through her. The world turned green and faded. Time slowed. 

When she hit the ground in blackness, her last thought was that it didn’t hurt quite as much as she’d thought it would.

  
  



	27. I Knew You Would

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One of the Fade.

_ The Inquisitor has fallen. _

The words echoed around his skull but he pushed them aside. She trusted him to be her general, and he had an army to command and a situation to manage. They had the rift in the courtyard under control finally, and it shimmered and stuttered, only letting through the occasional demon now. 

Cullen didn’t let himself feel anything, not even when a shaking Fenris brought him the dented helm Dagna had made for Evelyn and asked if he’d seen Hawke. “I told her to stay with the Inquisitor,” Fenris said, more to himself than to anyone else. “I thought it would be safer.”

_ Safe _ was never a word Cullen had associated with Evelyn Trevelyan. He almost laughed at the thought. 

His throat tightened as hard as his grip on the helm. No, he could not think about it...not yet…

_ You promised me _ , he thought in anguish,  _ never without a fight _ . 

Fenris met his blank stare and Cullen saw the same well of emptiness rearing up behind that green gaze. Before either of them could say or do anything more, a sound like a thunderclap echoed throughout the fortress and the rift before them flared bright. 

“To arms!” Cullen shouted, part of him glad to find that his voice still functioned. Beside him, Fenris’s eerie tattoos flared to life as he drew his sword in readiness. They shared a quick, understanding look: fight now, fall apart later.

“STOP!” Blackwall yelled as their men raced forward. Sera and Vivienne both let out an impressive string of invectives and the Iron Bull spun on his heel in impressive grace for one his size, holding out his ax to bar his men from charging.

Cullen whirled in anger but then shock knocked all the air from his lungs and he dropped his sword and shield with a clatter on the cobblestones. It wasn’t demons that had come through the rift.

It was the Inquisitor. 

…

  
  


Evelyn opened her eyes to a sea of gray green mist. “What…” she managed.

As she sat up, she felt nauseous, a feeling which wasn’t aided by the fact that on a rocky pillar near her stood Hawke. Sideways. The Champion was looking around and complaining that nothing looked like the Maker’s bosom. 

“Lethallan,” Solas murmured, and she felt him wrap his arm around her shoulders and waist and gently pull her upright. “Please don’t be sick on me.” 

She chuckled weakly and ran a hand over the bits of her hair that had come loose from her braid. “We need to get to the courtyard, tell the others Clarel has fallen…”

“Yeah, that might take a while,” Varric told her, and the undercurrent of fear in his voice made her blink away the last remnants of unconsciousness and look around.

Really look.

“Um.” Evelyn gazed at the vast landscape of floating rock islands and remnants of ruins and various nonsensical objects...a dreamlike scope of oddity. In the distance, black shadowy pillars rose. She could not tell how far away they were, or how close. Some sort of city.

Oh.

“Well,” she said, her voice thin even to her own ears, “shit.” 

Varric had a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder as the Seeker sat, pale and stunned. Warden Stroud helped Hawke down from her pillar onto the same ground the others shared. Evelyn looked at Solas, wide-eyed. His expression was tight and grim. “We’re in the Fade,” she said.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “We are here physically. I had not thought to ever experience this,” he added, more to himself than to her. 

Fear shot through her and she gripped his arms so tightly he turned to her in surprise. “The last time a human was here, we started the Void-damned Blights, Solas.” She couldn’t breathe. Not even the ground beneath her feet was steady. She shivered.  _ They weren’t meant to be there. _ It was all wrong, wrong, wrong…

“Evelyn,” Solas’s stern voice cut through her panic. “Evelyn, look at me.” 

She dragged her gaze to his and he held her steady. “You have been here before, survived here physically before, against all odds. It matters not if you can’t remember, it happened. Whatever Corypheus did to corrupt himself and spread that corruption is a result of his own arrogance and lust for power. You are not Corypheus. You will unleash no horror upon the world. You must focus, now. We have to find a way out and you are the only one who has a chance of doing so.” 

Evelyn pulled in a heavy breath and let it out slowly, and Solas held her until she was steady enough to stop shaking. A second pair of arms enveloped both of them, and she looked over at Hawke. “Is it not group hug time?” Hawke asked. She looked as frightened as Evelyn, but had tucked it under a veneer of humor. 

Warden Stroud, Cassandra, Varric...they were all looking to her for an answer, for leadership. She couldn’t fall apart, not now. 

“Talk to me about group hugs when you’re not wearing so much spiky armor,” Evelyn drawled. She straightened and Solas let go of her shoulders, as did Hawke. “Okay, so, we’re in the Fade.” 

“This is where you people go when you sleep?” Varric shook his head. “Tall people are bizarre.” 

Hawke looked around. “I’ve been conscious in the Fade before and it didn’t look like this. It was odd and dreamlike but steady, not so...disjointed?”

Solas grunted in agreement. “The Fade is reflective of the physical world, and the minds that enter it, consciously or unconsciously. Some can influence it and shift it to their will. Such was the power of the ancient elves.” 

“Somniari,” Hawke said. “Yes, I met one. Feynriel was his name. He was only half-elven but he carried the power.”

“That’s the boy you and Keeper Marethari got to Tevinter?” Varric asked. 

Hawke nodded. “Yes. He’s hanging out with your buddy Maevaris these days.” 

Solas looked intrigued but Evelyn cut in, “Solas, isn’t that what you can do?”

Hawke blinked. “You’re another somniari? Marethari said they were rare, and unfortunately the survival rate beyond childhood was low.”

“Likely as there are none who can adequately train the mind to control the power,” Solas said sadly. “Yes, lethallan, I can shape the Fade with power the Tevinters call ‘somniari’. It’s more complex than that, but it will do for now. This realm, though...we’re in a powerful spirit’s domain. If I try and use that magic while here physically, I cannot say what will happen, and it will attract the attention of whatever spirit reigns here.” He wrinkled his nose and looked around. “Nothing good, from the state of things. And that fear...while you are right to be cautious, what you are feeling - all of us, most likely - is caused by the spirit. This unease and fear that you cannot seem to shake. We must think past it.” 

Stroud cleared his throat. “Commander Clarel was attempting to bring through a large demon to bind. If that is the same creature, the rift it opened was in the courtyard of the fortress. Could that be our way out? The surroundings seem to map somewhat to Adamant.” 

“Good thinking, Stroud,” Evelyn said. “Let’s start searching, but we stay together and sound off occasionally. I don’t want anyone getting separated or you might get stuck here.” 

…

“Not that I don’t applaud the notion of helping people,” Varric told her, knee deep in a puddle of Fade-water while he reached for a candle remnant on a ledge of Fade-rock, “but I just have to ask if right now is the best time.” 

He handed her the candle and she carried it over to the little table where the echo of a troubled dreamer shimmered. “Solas says the Fade brings us to where we need to be, and those of us who aren’t somniari are more guided by unconscious instinct than conscious thought.”

Evelyn watched as the tableau glimmered and flared, then faded. “I think we’re weakening his hold, the Nightmare demon, with every echo we help.” 

“Too bad Cole didn’t fall through with us,” Varric commented. “The kid’s an odd one but isn’t he from here?”

“Yes and no,” Solas replied, joining them. “It’s complex.”

Varric eyed him. “Everything to do with the Fade is complex.”

“Well spotted, Child of Stone.” 

“You keep calling me that, Chuckles, but I have no more Stone sense than a halla.” 

“Boys,” Evelyn chided, “not the time.” She left them to their bickering, and found Cassandra. 

“How are you holding up?” she asked the Seeker.

Cassandra gave her an incredulous look, and Evelyn realized the question was incredibly stupid. She was physically in the Fade, a fact the Chantry had taught was the worst sin of mankind, and she’d encountered the ghost or spirit or echo of Divine Justinia V, who’d been a dear friend and mentor. No, Cassandra was not holding up well. 

For all that, however, Evelyn had to admire the other woman’s strength of will. She had not cracked, had not cried, had not nearly fallen apart as Evelyn herself had. Cassandra simply set her jaw and kept moving. That was all any of them could do for now. 

Keep moving.

…

  
  


Memories.

Evelyn fell to her knees and retched, her empty stomach clenching around nothing but bile. She wiped her mouth on the cloth Varric gave her and looked up at Solas, who looked grim and sad. 

_ The orb Corypheus carries. It is Elvhen. _

The mark on her hand...the Anchor was part of that orb’s power. It was Elvhen. No wonder Solas’s magic felt familiar, as did Fiona’s healing. “So it was all a crazy accident,” Varric said.

Cassandra helped Evelyn to her feet. “That is one way of looking at it,” the Seeker said.

Hawke frowned. “What other way is there?”

Cassandra and Varric traded looks, and the dwarf shifted. “I’ve said before that either Stabby has the best worst luck in the world or...I don’t know. The shit that happens to her is just crazy. And I say that knowing everything that happened to  _ you _ , Hawke.” 

The Champion blinked. “If you convert me to Andrastianism by showing me someone with worse luck than me, I will never forgive you.” 

Solas tilted his head in curiosity. “Even after all we’ve seen, Seeker, you still believe Evelyn is the Herald of your Andraste?”

The Seeker shrugged minutely. “I know it sounds...unlikely, but...Evelyn, if you were not the kind of person to intervene when you heard someone call out, if you were not the kind of person who leaps in and helps...you would not have been there. You would not have foiled Corypheus’s first plan and aided the Divine. Because of you, she got to choose her manner of death. She was not some helpless sacrifice to a profane ritual. It is the Divine’s duty to study scriptures and act best in accordance to the teachings of Andraste and the will of the Maker divined in them, and she saved you. You tried to help her and she chose to save you at the end of everything, trusted you to give us a chance at stopping his madness. There was nothing but danger in that room - a terrifying Darkspawn, corrupted mages, everything that would have made a lesser person run in terror. Not you.  _ Blessed are they that stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter _ .” 

Evelyn took Cassandra’s hand and let the Seeker pull her upright. “The Chantry teaches that the Maker has turned from His creation,” Cassandra continued, “but I have always wondered...perhaps it is merely that He gave us the freedom to choose whether we would walk in His Light or remain in the corrupted darkness. Perhaps that is the greatest gift of love one can give: the freedom to choose.” 

“Careful, Seeker,” Varric drawled in amusement, but Evelyn noted the spark of...something...in the way the dwarf looked at Cassandra. It was almost like faith. “You’re sounding pretty heretical.”

“Sebastian would have a fit,” Hawke agreed. “Which means you might be on to something, Cassandra.”

Evelyn cleared her throat. “As fascinating as theological discussions are to me, we need to keep moving and find the spirit again.”

“You think it is a spirit and not…” Stroud trailed off in pensive thought.

“What I think isn’t relevant at the moment,” Evelyn said. “The important part to us is that it’s helpful and as close to being the Divine as makes no difference to us here and now.”

Stroud nodded. Whatever he might have added was lost in the next moment as the voices began. 

Everyone winced. Hawke shuddered. “What…”

_ You will fail. Look at you, you are nothing. Nothing but a spoiled brat incapable of leadership. They only look to you because of the mark you bear, and even that was never meant for you.  _

Solas grimaced. “Nightmare.” He shook himself slightly. “It feeds on fear, growing fat on the terrors of unconscious thought and memory. It’s noticed our presence. The spirit of Divine could not shield us any longer. It will begin speaking directly to each of us now, but whatever it tells you, you must ignore.” 

Evelyn rubbed her arms, goosebumps forming under her armor. “I agree with Solas. Let’s keep moving. Ignore the voice as best you can. It’s nothing we haven’t all said to ourselves in our darkest moments. That doesn’t make any of it true.” 

_ He doesn’t really love you. He only thinks he does. But how can he love you when he has so little love for himself?  _

She reached out and touched Solas’s sleeve and he held back, inclining his head closer with a look of curiosity. “How old do you think this spirit is? This Nightmare demon? It wasn’t always so twisted, I’m sure.”

“Ancient,” he answered almost immediately. “Fear is the oldest emotion, save perhaps desire. What is on your mind, lethallan? I know that look.” 

“Many things, Solas. Now is perhaps not the time to discuss it, but...that inscription I found back there, the one written by Corypheus’s enslaved elf? I...it described him having...dreams. Nightmares. Before he heard Dumat call to him.” 

Solas’s gaze sharpened. “You think their alliance is not recent.” 

“I think Corypheus is a pawn of something greater and more terrible than we know.” She looked at Solas, willing him to tell her that she was mistaken in her logic, but he said nothing. “We don’t really know what the Old Gods were, not even the elves have legends about them that they know of, and they’re the oldest race in Thedas. If Dumat could manipulate Nightmare into reaching across the Veil, influencing the powerful mages of ancient Tevinter into dangerous magic...if the goal was to storm the so-called Golden City…”

She ran a hand across her face. “Solas, you know I’ve never bought the stuff about Andraste and the Maker and the Golden City. I always figured it was metaphor, some lesson-bearing story, a cautionary tale. That humans could have such hubris as to do something terrible and stupid and dangerous, I can believe. That they became the first Darskpawn and brought back the Blight to the physical world, I can believe that, too, even if I never bought that any of it was the will of the Maker. But that just begs the question:  _ what is in the Black City? _ ” She groaned in frustration. “We know so damn little and why? Because we’ve tied ourselves in knots with religion and righteousness so tightly we can’t see beyond our own damn noses.  _ Why _ did Dumat want the magisters to tear down the Veil or rip a hole in it large enough to access the City?  _ What _ does Corypheus want to get back to so badly?”

He leveled a look at her. “I hope you are not suggesting a detour to find out.” 

“No, no. Whatever is there is also a source of Blight. Maybe the original source for all we know. I have no desire to start another Blight. But…” she frowned. 

“But what, lethallan?” Solas shifted impatiently. “We need to keep moving if we are to get out of here.”

“I know, yes, of course, I just...there’s something…there’s something I’m not seeing and it’s right in front of me. Some bit of pattern with the Blight that’s been bothering me.” 

“Inquisitor, are you well?” Cassandra called back. Solas raised his eyebrows at her and Evelyn sighed. 

She picked up the pace. “Yes, of course!” she called back. “Keep going.” 

…

  
  


Light flared, bright and green and crackling, and Cullen forgot how to breathe.

She stepped from the rift, furious strength wound through her body like a coiled spring, and raised her left hand. The rift snapped shut with a resounding explosion that shook everyone except for her, jaw set angrily. To anyone else, she was the picture of righteous ferocity, but Cullen could see the fear beneath the firm set of her shoulders and his heart clenched within his chest. 

Fenris darted forward and threw his arms around a shaking Hawke, while around them all an enormous cheer rose from the Inquisition soldiers. The very walls of Adamant seemed to shake with it. He could have stormed the gates with the strength of their faith alone, he thought. 

Evelyn didn’t shy from it, but looked head on at her army and raised her left hand high, fist clenched. Allowing them all this moment of victory. 

Maker, she was incredible. 

But while the Commander might rejoice, the lover was concerned by the haunted, chased look in her eyes, the firmness in her face that hinted at a mask just barely held onto. Through the press of bodies, Cullen managed to shout some orders that were heard and space was given. He found Evelyn accepting the surrender of the Wardens, Hawke beside her clinging to Fenris with a tear-stained face. 

“In peace, vigilance,” the Warden warrior spoke sadly.

“In death, sacrifice,” Evelyn finished. “Warden Stroud will be remembered by history as a hero. I promise you that. We honor him.” 

“Thank you, Inquisitor. We must regroup, and I think you are correct, we must return to Weisshaupt for now. Orlais is too dangerous with Corypheus’s ability to affect our minds. I wish we could offer more assistance.” 

Evelyn nodded. “Your skill in battle would have been an appreciated addition, but one we cannot risk. Sister Nightingale will see to a liaison with Weisshaupt and the Inquisition so that we can still share resources. The Grey Wardens are still needed in Thedas.” 

“I’ll go,” Hawke said softly as the Warden walked away. “To Weisshaupt. I’ll go.” 

“Hawke,” Fenris growled, but she stepped away. 

Evelyn held her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. “As you wish, Hawke,” she replied, but caught the Champion’s arm in a firm grip, “but remember, he gave you this chance. Don’t squander it.” A slight incline of her head toward Fenris. “You have a life to live.” 

In that moment, there may as well not have been the gap in years between the two women. From her bearing and words, Evelyn seemed to speak from decades a head of where they stood now, while Hawke nodded and bit her lip like a recalcitrant youth. She let go of Hawke and nodded in thanks to Fenris, offering a friendly clasp of hands. “I’ll leave the decision to you two together. Varric can let me know what you decide, as we’ll undoubtedly put his network to use.” 

Fenris nodded. “Inquisitor.” He paused, and added under his breath, “Thank you.” 

“She’ll need healing, and...time.” The elf nodded and followed Hawke to the Healer’s tent.

“And you?” Cullen asked. At last, she turned to him. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes swam dangerously. He gripped her arm and she inhaled steadily. “That’s it,” he continued, making sure they weren’t overheard, “in, and out again. Hold onto your anger a little longer. It will keep you upright. You must be what they need now, but I will be here when you must be yourself again.” 

“Cullen…”

He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “I am by your side, now and always. No matter how far you go from me.” 

“I wouldn’t let go,” she told him. “I fought.” 

He slipped off his gauntlet and cupped her face in wrinkled and stinking leather that she leaned into like the finest silk. “I knew you would.” 

  
  



	28. In Death, Sacrifice

_ Don’t let go. _

Whispered words, heated but desperate. Soft gasps and stifled cries...they could have been pleasure or sorrow or both, but he held on. Her hands were every bit as demanding as his, both of them starving for reassurance that she was here, she was real, she was alive and breathing. 

There would be marks on both of them, the indentations of teeth and nails, gentle bruises from the hardness of the cot, the hard tent floor, the war desk, pieces of armor they hadn’t bothered to remove. It would tell a story she needed to read over and over on her skin, so the nightmare could fade. 

When they’d finished for the third time, he held her even tighter, letting the tears dry on his bare chest, leaving salt trails of untold sorrow and horror in their wake. He knew better than to ask. She would tell when she was able. It could be tomorrow, it could be five or ten years, or even never. That hurt was hers alone, however much he might wish he could shoulder some of it for her. You couldn’t prise away pain the other wasn’t willing to let go of; that was a fundamental truth he’d learned the hard way. 

He woke to cold blankets and her absence, but her armor was on the floor, the mingled scent of sweat and sex still heavy in the air. She had gone out, but no, it was not a dream. She was here.

She was real.

…

  
  


_ “Commander Clarel recruited me,” Stroud told her, staring out at the odd vista of the Fade. “She saved my life where I would have thrown it away in vengeance. She gave me a purpose and a mission, and...I…” _

_ “You didn’t fail her, Warden,” Evelyn told him, picking up the dream-like book that kept shifting with different titles of comforting children’s stories. She placed it in front of the wisp of another of the echoes Varric had termed Dreamers. “She failed herself.” Evelyn grimaced. “It’s easy to do. Once might say I failed myself for nigh on ten years running.”  _

_ Stroud tossed her a look, one eyebrow climbing up. “Did you take nearly an entire Order on whom the best chance for saving the world in the face of the Blight rests with you in your self-destructive spiral?” _

_ “Well. No.” Evelyn grunted as he helped her back onto the ledge. “But I suppose the jury’s still out on the Inquisition. Too early to tell yet if I’ll fuck it up specatcularly.” She sighed. “Stroud. I never wanted any of this…I’m sorry about everything. I wanted to be angry at the Wardens, but I don’t even know if Corypheus is the architect of his own fate anymore. There’s always someone else pulling strings, wherever you look.” _

_ Stroud exhaled in a soft, mirthless snort. “We cannot control the actions of others. All we can control is how we act and react. That is the only thing capable of true and lasting change.”  _

_ “Wise words.”  _

_ He looked at her, and there was a weight of sadness in him she recognized: the weight of loss, of absence. “They were Clarel’s.”  _

…

  
  


The Western Approach was cold at night, which Evelyn was thankful for. The bite of the cool air through the loose cotton of Cullen’s tunic made her feel present and alive. She’d hand-plaited her hair loosely at the back of her neck and belted the nicked tunic over a clean pair of doeskin leggings. She’d had the sense to grab a pack from her tent, but the tunic held Cullen’s scent - that elderflower soap and the sharp sprigs of rosemary his steward threw into his bags to keep the odors of sweat and staleness somewhat under control - and she found that comforting. 

At this point, she really couldn’t have given a damn who knew the Inquisitor was sleeping with her Commander. As Cullen himself had pointed out, Andraste hadn’t been a pure virgin: she was a mother, a warrior, a woman. Her Herald could damn well find love and companionship in the finest of men. 

For the first time, Evelyn found herself wanting to believe Cassandra: that there were reasons, patterns, and that the world wasn’t simply chaotically tumbling into itself over and over again. Yet she also knew Varric was right. It didn’t matter what she believed. People would make up their minds according to what they wanted or needed to believe, and truth didn’t always enter into that. They would have to be careful in what they wrote of the Divine, she supposed. 

She spotted the bonfire and would have kept her distance, but a figure stood and called out to her. The Warden she’d spoken to in the courtyard, she thought. He held out a bottle and waved her over. “For Stroud,” he explained in his thick Orlesian accent. 

Several Grey Wardens were gathered around the fire, all of them drinking. One strummed an Antivan guitar and another was tuning a fiddle. A woman began to softly hum. “Orlesians aren’t made for maudlin contemplation of death,” Warden Marchand told her. “Not the Northerners, at any rate.” He drank. “Jean-Marc was from the Fields of Ghislain, you know it?”

Evelyn nodded. “I do. Beautiful country.” 

He nodded. “Well, in the Fields, you know, we don’t cry at our funerals. We drink, we laugh, we remember. We sing, and dance. Join us, Inquisitor. For Jean-Luc.”

…

  
  


_ “Keep alert,” Solas told them, the tension in his voice and body language belying his calm expression. This place was taking its toll on all of them, but Solas had become increasingly agitated every time Nightmare spoke to each of them in their minds. Whatever the demon said to him, it upset the normally unruffled elf. “It will not let us go without a fight now that we’ve entered its demesne.”  _

_ They all nodded. Weapons were gripped, buckles tightened, shields strapped down. Stroud put a hand on her arm. “A moment, Inquisitor.” _

_ “Stroud-” _

_ “Please. It is important.” He reached beneath his mail tunic and brought out a small vial on a silverite chain. She frowned at it, something familiar tugging at a memory. The vial was filled with a dark, viscous fluid that for some reason reminded her of blood. Phylactery, that was it. The pendant reminded her of how Owen described a mage’s phylactery.  _

_ Stroud pulled the chain over his head and handed it to her. “This contains the blood of my brethren who are no longer with us. It is one of the things most important to Grey Warden. Always, we remember those who are gone. I have added a drop of my own to it. If I do not make it out of here, Inquisitor, give it to my brothers.”  _

_ She took it. “We will make it out, Stroud. All of us.”  _

_ He put a hand on her shoulder. “In the short time I have known you, you have proved to be an extraordinary person, Inquisitor Trevelyan. I will be truly sorry if we have no further time to work together, but you must know that a Grey Warden’s duty is to protect and defend, and I will do what I must to ensure your survival. You are the only one who has a hope of defeating Corypheus, and only through you can I do my duty as a Warden.” _

_ She felt a tightness in her throat, a foreboding settling in her stomach. “I will get us all out, Stroud.”  _

_ “Not even you can work every miracle, Herald of Andraste. I will do whatever it takes.” He let his hand fall from her arm. “Remember that we cannot control the actions of others.” _

_ “We can only control how we ourselves act and react, yes,” Evelyn repeated, nodding. She inhaled and squared her shoulders, tucking the amulet into an inner pocket of her armor. “Whatever it takes, Warden Stroud.”  _

_ He gave her a tight smile. “In war,” she heard him murmur as she walked away, “victory.”  _

...

  
  


By the fifth or sixth bottle of what the Wardens called “conscription ale”, Evelyn could no longer feel half her face and blessedly little else. She listened to the Orlesians sing and tapped her foot in time. She’d given Stroud’s Warden amulet to Marchand, and he handed around the small circle each time someone else stood up with a song. 

Marchand handed her another bottle while calling taunts at Dupuis for failing to come up with a suitable song. The other Warden shrugged and handed the amulet back. “You wanted something sad,” she said with another lift of her broad shoulders. “We don’t have sad songs in Churneau.” 

Marchand grumbled then looked sideways at Evelyn. “Inquisitor, you are from the Free Marches, are you not?”

“Ostwick,” she replied. “Born and raised.” 

“Can you sing?”

Evelyn laughed. “It’s my cousin you want, really, but yes, I can sing as well. Hand over the amulet.” 

…

  
  


_ Evelyn had never exactly been fond of spiders - who was, really? - but she’d never been particularly frightened of them, even the giant variety. In a world full of deadly fauna, demons, and Darkspawn, it hardly seemed worth the effort. _

_ But this was something different. The dark, scuttling shapes sent forth from the Fear Demons, with their arching arachnid shapes were bad enough. But this? _

_ She was terrified. Petrified with fear. The creature looming before them was more monstrous than anything she could have imagined. Ancient and terrible and enormous - there was no possible way forward.  _

_ Then the small, intrepid spirit of Faith that called itself Divine Justinia V flew in the face of it and lit up the Fade like the bright rays of the Maker’s promised eye.  _

_ Light and faith. Fear and darkness. For a fleeting moment, Evelyn felt as though she glimpsed a small piece of the pattern to everything, but it faded as they darted forward toward the rift.  _

_ Close, they were so close. _

_ It stirred.  _

_ “NO!” Evelyn screamed, launching herself between Solas and the piercing thrust of Nightmare’s carapaced leg. He whirled around, eyes wide.  _

_ “Are you mad?!” he yelled back, pushing her out of the way and throwing out a barrier. It cut through Solas’s magic easily, and split the ground where they’d stood, catching Solas’s leg as it did so. He swore and stumbled. “Evelyn, you must go through!” He pushed her forward, but she sidestepped him and shoved him, bleeding and weak, at Cassandra, who gathered his tunic in one hand and an unconscious Varric’s coat in the other.  _

_ Hawke unsheathed her sword. “Go! I’ll buy you time.”  _

_ Evelyn caught Warden Stroud’s eye as she turned around and he leveled a look at her, swinging his own sword into an aggressive stance. “Whatever it takes,” he told her. “In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.”  _

_ “No! Stroud! I won’t let you!” Hawke called. “Go through, the Wardens need you!” _

_ “But the world needs a Champion, Hawke, not just Kirkwall. And this is not your choice to make.” Hawke stepped forward to argue, but Stroud caught Evelyn’s eye again and she nodded. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured with her head for Cassandra to drag their companions through the rift, over Solas’s vehement protests.  _

_ Evelyn clipped Hawke on the back of her head with the pommel of her blade, while catching the woman around the waist with the other arm. Hawke staggered, stunned but not unconscious, and Evelyn hauled her to the rift. She pushed her through, blasting the simple healing spell Solas had taught her at Hawke with little deftness as she pushed.  _

_ Evelyn turned, once, to see Stroud crumple beneath the demon.  _

_ Oh, Sweet Maker, she thought. If you ever existed at all, please...please let him be dead.  _

_ And please forgive me. _

_ She stepped through the rift. _

  
  


****

  
  


Cullen saw the bonfire before he heard the music. It wasn’t until he drew closer that he recognized the voice singing as Evelyn. He hadn’t ever heard her sing, though they’d all crowded around to listen to her cousin sing at the tavern. Leliana always requested the sappiest love ballads and insisted it was because Josephine was too embarrassed to ask. 

Evelyn lacked the clarity and haunting quality Vessana’s singing possessed, but her voice was steady and strong with a touch of smokiness to it from drink that Cullen found appealing. It was an earthly voice, a voice that belonged to a sister, a mother, a...wife. Someone you could know, unlike the untouchable, eerie beauty of Vess, who wound magic into her song. 

The song was mournful and haunting enough - some ballad about a promise of true love lost, and the ghost of a beloved. A handful of Wardens sat around the fire drinking. Orlesian, by the sound of their voices, though of course not all the Wardens in the Orlesian division were actually Orlesian by birth. They sorted their numbers as well as they could between territories in Southern Thedas. Boundaries and borders meant nothing to the Blight, after all. 

Evelyn passed over the amulet he’d seen around her neck, and knew to be Warden Stroud’s. A physical reminder of an emotional burden to bear. She stood, wavering a litte, as she saw him. “Fun as it’s been, lads,” she told them, “I should sleep this off before I’m seen.” She raised the bottle in her hand. “To Jean-Luc Stroud, an exemplary warrior and person. We will not fail in the fight to come, and it is because he gave us this chance. The Inquisition and Thedas itself, owe him everything. His sacrifice will not be in vain. In this war against Corypheus, I promise you, we will find our victory.” 

“To Jean-Luc!” they echoed.

“To the Grey Wardens,” Evelyn added softly, “may you rebuild, and become better. That is all any of us can do. Do it well, my friends.”

…

  
  


“You could have stayed,” he told her. “I wasn’t coming to collect you.” 

She leaned against him, glad of his warmth, and his solidity. The moon hung heavy and half full above them, the night sky full of stars. It was beautiful. “I couldn’t stay,” she told him. “I would have started sobbing.” 

Evelyn rested her aching head against Cullen’s shoulder. She’d used that healing spell, but apparently it wasn’t strong enough to cut through the hangover portion, simply the intoxication. She’d have to have a word with Solas about that. 

Ah, Solas. She should check on him at some point, but she had a feeling Vessana was already there.

She sniffed, and looked up at the sky. “I left him behind, Cullen.”

“It was his choice.” 

“He could still be alive and trapped there. I left him. I closed that rift, I didn’t even wait. I should have...shouldn’t I?” She shook her head. “But no, I know I did what had to be done. Stroud knew the choice he made. But, Maker, that doesn’t make it any easier. What I know and what I feel don’t agree.” 

He let out a breath. “In my experience, love, they rarely do.” 

She swallowed. “Does it get easier? This kind of thing?”

“No,” he answered honestly. “I’m not sure I would want it to. It should be difficult. It should hurt.”

Oddly, that made her smile, and he lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Thank you,” she told him. “For being honest. For not telling me the platitudes another might have said. For not telling me what you think I need to hear. This is why I need you, Cullen, in every aspect of my life. As Evelyn, as the Inquisitor, both.” 

“Come on,” he said, standing, “I’ve got a few dreamless tonics - you can’t use them every night without ill effect, but they’ll help tonight. Let’s get some rest.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos not required for me to keep writing, but they're highly appreciated and encourage me to write more quickly.
> 
> Smash that kudos button.


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